I've never been a big fan of New Year's. I've had a few good ones, but mostly I preferred to keep to myself. It's not a real holiday. You don't spend it with your family, or eating chocolate. The purpose is to get as smashed as possible with as many people as possible. Sorry, but that doesn't make good sense to me. I prefer to drink alone. I have my reasons.

Ten years ago was my first Christmas without my dad. I was officially an orphan. I managed through Christmas just fine, with my friends around me. But they all had plans for New Years, so I bowed out. I had originally planned to spend it on the couch with Dick Clark and a pint of Hagen Daas. But then I got bored.

I threw on my jeans and boots, grabbed my keys, and headed for the open road. I did that a lot. I couldn't stay still; couldn't be by myself. I got it in my head that I would drive to Toronto (from Montreal). We were having a terrible cold snap, so the roads were clear and dry - no snow. I'd make it in less than five if I drove at my normal speed.

I tore along the 401 at about 140km/hr, and I remember listening to Elton John's Greatest Hits. Daniel. Over and over I listened to Daniel. That was my father's name. I drove ever faster, to escape myself and my father.

This littel drive down memory lane doesn't have a point, so don't hold your breath waiting for a punchline. I didn't have an accident. I wasn't drunk. Heck, I never even made it to Toronto due to an electrical fault in the old New Yorker. How unglamorous is that?? No, there isn't a plot to this tale. There's just Daniel and a decade.

Last night was a bad night. I watched a little more TV than I suppose I should have. When I switched it on around quarter to 10, I went over to CP Pulse 24 - the Toronto news station. They were airing a live "memorial" to Jane Creba in Nathan Philips Square. This was no memorial. This was an anti-gun, pro-hippie, talking-just-to-hear-myself-speak extravaganza of the lowest order. There were tables set up to hold votive candles, which instead were covered in pamphlets and propaganda. Tied to the front of those tables were posters of infants and toddlers of all colors, with the quote "Guns Are Scary. They Hurt People."

One woman came on to speak, and I swear she was there for over 15 minutes. Which would have been nice, had she known the victim. I'm sure she would have eulogized her well. Instead, she was an activist who went on and on, smiling and laughing at times - very appropriate to the occasion, as I'm sure the grieving family would agree, if they wound up watching that drivel last night. I had time to make a coffee, go to the bathroom, on and on she went. At one point I raged to Mr. Right that I had time to hop on the subway, make it down to Nathan Philips Square, that cow would still be talking, and I could bitch-slap her live on television. Mr. Right just dumped more Bailey's into my coffee, waiting for the sedative effect to kick in. Good man.

Anyway, various people presented their agendas, there was a good shot of Jack Layton and Olivia Chow looking appropriately sombre (I didn't know Jack-o was able to take that smarmy grin off his face), and then mercifully it was over at about 10:15. And in a fit of self-flagellation, no doubt brought on by rage, I switched over to CBC Newsworld, to see a murdering Palestinian bastard saying how excited he was to face the Israelis. WTF?? I was intrigued. Then a voice over by Michael Douglas. Hmm...

For the next hour and 45 minutes, I sat glued to the television, alternating between screaming and sobbing, while I watched a documentary called One Day in September. CBC put it on as part of its Passionate Eye series, to capitalize on the new Spielberg movie Munich.

I knew the story. I had just never seen it. My father had told me about it years ago, because Montreal hosted the next Olympics the year I was born, and he was telling me about the heavy security that they put up. I believe we were driving through Montreal's East End, past the white elephant of the Olympic Stadium, when he brought it up. Most of the world history I know I learned from him, and this was just another fact. Some other little tidbit. Now all of a sudden it's a popular subject again, thanks to Spielberg. Last night's documentary showed the bungling indifference of the German authorities, the missed opportunity of the Israelis to bring in Mossad while the hostages were still alive, the dedication of the terrorists to their cause, and how the lone Palestinian survivor is still proud of what he did, because it put the name of Palestine on everybody's lips.

I wept. I couldn't help myself. I demanded to know how many more times we would have to see the tortured faces of dead Jews before something was done about it once and for all. Personally, I don't think it was an accident that the Palestinians picked Germany to host their little spree. They wanted to make a point. A point that the Jews were without ally. That they would die. I was shocked not only by the images at the end of the burnt out helicopter and bloody bodies of the hostages, but by the German authorities who were interviewed, saying that Issa (the terrorist negotiator at the entrance to the Israeli apartments) was a nice enough guy, who might have been nice to know under different circumstances. I was shocked by the way the retired police were saying that the way they put their own man out in the open at the airport, without bullet-proof gear or helmet, without radio communications - it was stupid, something to laugh about now. Laugh? I wasn't laughing! I was precariously close to being sick.

I am a blogger. It means I'm obsessed by the news, and watch it all the time. But this was one of the few times I let something really get to me. As a matter of fact, it was one of three times. September 11th; hurricaine Katrina - specifically the story of Mr. Jackson, whose house tore in two while he and his wife were on the roof, and he clung to his grandchild while he watched his wife get washed away; and this film One Day in September.

Tonight, Dick Clark's return will be a welcome respite. But I'm sure those images will stay with me for months to come.

Heh. I've been mugged on the Montreal Metro too. I wonder where his boyfri... oops, I mean bodyguard was.

Everyone knows that the eeeevil Yanks love their guns 'n' ammo. So what better killing field for them to hang about in than the army? According to experts like Michael Moore and Janeane Garofalo, they can kill babies, rape the land for oil, and torture the locals.

Or, if you live on this planet (unlike Mike & Janeane), you may be interested in knowing what American soldiers really do.

They help. They rescue. They feed and house. They do not give in to fear, though they live with fear everyday.

I recently received an email from an American soldier, telling me about a blog called Camp Katrina. It's for those of us who roll our eyes at some of the things the MSM reports about the military, since we know that the armed forces are not made up of babykillers. Cindy Sheehan can wail all she wants, but these soldiers are too busy to listen to her. They are busy saving lives and improving conditions around the world.

Those animals:

Camp Katrina Kudos to Spc. Lucas Crowe, a medic with the 172nd Stryker Brigade Combat Team, 2nd Battalion, 1st Infantry Regiment, who was awarded the Bronze Star from Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld in a special awards presentation Dec. 24 at Forward Operating Base Courage.

On Dec. 15, Crowe saved the life of an Iraqi two-year-old boy who had nearly drowned in the basement of his family home. The child had stopped breathing until Crowe administered first aid saving the boy’s life.

Crowe has added himself to the long list of soldiers who prove that the U.S. military does much more than just kill people and break things.

I've made no secret of my support for the American forces in Iraq and Afghanistan, and I hope they stay long enough to finish the job. But don't forget about Katrina. While New Orleans cops were out looting with everyone else, the military was keeping the peace. Don't forget about Bande Aceh, where a year ago the American military was recovering bodies, handing out food and supplies, and opening hospitals.

Spend some time at Camp Katrina. You're sure to be impressed.

Our politicians in Toronto, Ontario, and Canada are crying out for guns to be banned, and for more afterschool programs. Because that has all worked so well so far, hasn't it?

I've written before about the audacity of the gangs in Toronto, and I was called many names. Cunt. Racist. Bitch. Bigot. Why? Because I dared to say the b-word. Black. C'mon people. The gangs are predominantly black. The kids are black, of Jamaican descent for the most part, they come from broken homes, and thug culture is cool. Don't you watch MTV? It's sexy to be a gangsta. Black is not a slur - it's a description. But it's the holiest of holies in a country like Canada - in a city like Toronto. You musn't ever indicate that race or culture has anything to do with the negative actions of another. Ever.

Islamic terrorists are "insurgents" or "freedom fighters." Black gang-bangers are "disadvantaged youth" who have been "marginalized by society." Did anyone ever stop to think that they might be marginalized because they are dangerous? Personally, I do not marginalize the woman who sits next to me at the office (she is both black and Muslim, for the record). There is no reason to. She is hard working, whip smart, friendly, not a danger to anyone, and she and her husband have raised their children with a sense of love and responsibility. Oh, and did I mention that they live just outside the "danger zone" in northwest Toronto? The threat is at their door. Their daughters run the risk every day of becoming pregnant; their son runs the risk of winding up in a gang. So why haven't they? Maybe because they have a bit more self-respect, and a bit more community respect.

The Jamaican community is broken. There are no fathers. Just endless children, and mothers who have run out of time, money and patience to look after them. They come to Canada as immigrants and refugees, searching for a better life. But they have been encouraged onto welfare, encouraged to hold on to the life they had in the Islands because it is their "culture", and by doing so they have not gained that better life. They have maintained the status quo - only it just happens to be colder here. (see Lost Budgie's post from the beginning of December for more on this. he also uses the b-word. there's more here. Also, North American Patriot here and here)

So what's the solution? Paul Martin wants to ban guns. It's a bullshit idea he pulled out of nowhere in order to win the upcoming election. And right now Toronto is so scared, it's probably going to work. For the election, I mean - not the problem. Making something illegal that is already illegal (shooting someone with intent to rob or murder is illegal, you know, not that the sentencing reflects it) is hardly going to help. It's redundant, like so many of our erstwhile government's policies.

Banning immigration won't help, either. Neither will being overly elitist about it, and saying we will or won't accept so-and-so. Certainly, if you've committed a crime in your home country, you should not be permitted in. But the four-year-old who accompanies his mother here from Jamaica probably won't have committed a crime. No, that won't happen till he's at least 12. So let's forget that idea. Closing the borders to immigration won't solve it.

What about closing the borders to Americans? After all, they are the source of all evil - a hellmouth, if you will - and they shouldn't be allowed to export their crime culture to Canada. Crime culture? You mean, it's their culture?? Well then, shouldn't it be embraced? Celebrated? Shouldn't we hold a parade for it?

Okay, sorry sorry, I went off on a tangent there...

Anyway, it's not the Americans. Their culture of crime is laregely due to immigration as well, but like us, it makes no sense for them to close the doors. Besides, the reports say that 50% of the guns are coming in from the U.S., but what isn't being reported is whether or not they are being carried over in the trunks and pockets of Canadians. It might be worth looking into.

Toronto is falling apart. There have been 52 shooting related deaths so far this year ("Shooting related deaths" is another way for the politically correct press to mess with your emotions. The correct term is MURDERS). The most recent one was on Boxing Day, on a busy street full of shoppers looking for a bargain. A teenage girl, 15-year-old Jane Creba was crossing the street between shops, and was gunned down like an animal. This Globe & Mail article makes it sound like it was her fault for being there, for crossing the street. Like she was flighty and stupid and should have known better.

Jane Creba, the bright and athletic 15-year-old killed in the Boxing Day shootings on Yonge Street, wandered into the midst of the gunfire that suddenly erupted.

She was shopping with her 18-year-old sister, Alison, on the east side of the street, near Sam the Record Man, when she decided to skip across to the other side where the Foot Locker sporting goods store is located.

She walked smack into the crossfire of the gun battle, The Globe and Mail has learned, and took one bullet to the upper torso.

Gosh, didn't her mother teach her to look both ways before crossing the street, to make sure there are no wayward cabbies or stray bullets coming? Anyway, if you read on, you'll see that her family were not up to talking to the press, which is a major no-no as far as the Globe is concerened, which might explain their contempt toward the victim.

My favorite part is near the end of the article.

Mr. Thompson, who remains in custody until his next court appearance, was released just before Christmas from Maplehurst prison near Milton, Ont.

He had served 30 days for his role in a convenience-store robbery.

For most of the past two years he had been staying with his cousin, Marsha Grant, 27, who has two young children and lives in a public housing complex in the Jane-Finch neighbourhood.

Mr. Thompson, the father of a one-year-old boy, had been working at a nearby restaurant as a chef.

Ms. Grant said she was shocked to learn that he was caught up in the events on Yonge Street on Boxing Day, but she strongly doubts that he was the shooter.

"Andre would not be so stupid as to fire a gun into a crowd like that," she said.

Not into a crowd! Directly into an enemy in a secluded alley, maybe, but not into a crowd!

Jane, I am sorry that you were murdered on Boxing Day. I am sorry for your family. I'm sorry that one of them responsible for your death was already a know violent offender, and that they let him out into society. I'm sorry that the Globe & Mail thinks you're a twit. You were not in the wrong place at the wrong time - you were shopping. You were good for Toronto's economy. I hope you had a nice Christmas Day. And I'm sorry that our city and our government is so foolish as to think that basketball is going to bring you back, or keep this from happening again. Bless you.

Wednesday, Dec. 28, 2005
8pm onwards
at Joe Mercury's
(Corner of Dundas West and Bloor, steps away from Dundas West Subway
Station.)
2345 Dundas St. West. Toronto, M6P 1W7
416.535.1324

$15/person includes one beverage and snacks throughout the evening.

Moonbats need not attend.

A very cool Christmas! Santa was good to us this year (whereas last year he skipped our place entirely).

Mr. Right got a few DVD's, including Batman Begins, which he was asking me for. We received a nice stack of cash from his parents, too, which helps!

I received awesome stuff, including my first pearls (earrings). I am truly a girl on the right. I also got an authentic US Secret Service t-shirt (I'll be the only kid on my block with one of those), the Badass Girl's Poker Party kit for the next time MustControlFistOfDeath and friends decend on my place for poker & margaritas, Rescuing Canada's Right, and assorted junk food. Woohoo!

The VRWChristmas Party last weekend yeilded great things for the 82nd Airborne in Iraq, including a Maxim calendar and a Gameboy with game. And baby wipes. No, really.

Last night's dinner with The Last Amazon was great (thanks, Kateland!), and we will be laughing for weeks to come over The Happy Hand. Kateland, being a mom, made sure we had candies and stockings.

Upon our return home last night, we watched A Christmas Carol and relaxed. This is a wonderful Christmas, and I want to thank everyone who helped make it so great.

All the best, y'all.

It's Christmas Eve, which has traditionally been my favorite day of the year. I always feel out of sorts if there isn't something homey going on. This year, as if to rescue Mr. Right & I from the dullness of being just two in front of the TV, Kateland from The Last Amazon has invited us to sup at her table with her family and friends. We'll catch you all tomorrow. Be sure to get to sleep early tonight, everyone. Santa sees you when you're sleeping, and knows when you're awake.

Where did they all go?

I remember being a kid in the slums, with all my slum cousins. Huge turkey, twenty-odd (very odd) people in the house on Christmas Day. My grandmother Sullivan, and my Nana were alive then. Nana lived with us, and usually did all the baking. I always had some kind of ornate dress - sometimes red velvet, sometimes blue lace. Devil with a blue dress on. My godparents would come over with an ostentatious gift (I kept many of them through the years, to remind me that they didn't always hate me). My cousin Rose was a teenager, all angles and gawkiness. No one at the dinner table knew she would grow into a beautiful and notorious Madam. No one at that table knew a damn thing about what the future would hold.

After leaving the slums behind, and becoming suburbanites, Christmas took on a different feel. The gifts under the tree were better, and the livingroom was bigger, but no one made the trip to our house for dinner anymore. Too far to travel from the slums to the 'burbs. Only my Uncle Rick (who was notorious in his own right) would make the trip. Nana still baked, and Mom still cooked, but it just had a different vibe. I wonder if it's because the move to the 'burbs is what precipitated the sale of The Cottage, and that's why I look back with a jaded eye. It was the start of my growing up. Although I was only 7, I had lost my childhood. Santa was pushed to the back of my mind. Grandma Sullivan was dead. The Cottage was about to be sold out of my reach forever. Why bother decorating?

When I was 10, we lost Nana very suddenly. My mother and I had come back from the hospital where Nana was recovering from pneumonia. No sooner had we stepped in the door when the phone rang. On November 14th, 1986, I lost my best friend. Christmas that year was tough, yet it is one that sticks with me. I am, perhaps, the only person on this planet who can be reduced to tears while listening to Bony M's Mary's Boy Child. That calypso-esqe holiday tune never fails to bring tears to my eyes. Everytime I hear it, I see myself on Christmas morning, 1986, standing in the kitchen with my mother. She is stuffing the turkey, and I am nibbling on homemade truffles from Uncle Rick's girlfriend. It's about 7 in the morning, but the radio is turned on and turned up. Mary's Boy Child comes on. There is no reason for this memory to make me cry, but it does.

All time worst Christmas ever: 1990. My mother went into the hospital on December 16th. We were flat broke, and my first love, Vince, was coming in for Christmas from St. Catharine's ON. What a disaster! I agreed with Dad that I would rather us buy a gift for Vince, than have Dad buy a gift for me. So we bought him a skateboard. Weeks before, Mom had bought a massive turkey, thinking we'd have a few people over for the big day. No one knew at that time that she had 5 months to live. So here's Dad & I trying to put on a brave and cheerful front for Vince, plus visit Mom - who was still undiagnosed at the time, and was extremely irritated at being in the hospital for Christmas. My godmother sent me an ugly sweater. That pretty much summed it up, thankyouverymuch.

Strangely, the following Christmas began a new trend of warmth in our house. Although Dad and I were still coming to terms with each other, our referee no longer with us, we both seemed open to the idea of Christmas. December 24th saw me spending the early part of the evening at my friend Steve's house, with his family. Then around 10 o'clock, Dad would pick me up, and we'd go home to watch Alistair Sim in A Christmas Carol. No one has yet to play a better Scrooge, as far as I'm concerned (although strangely, Michael Caine in A Muppet Christmas Carol comes a close second). We'd have a few drinks, and something to eat, and at midnight we'd open our presents before heading off to bed. We celebrated that way for 4 years. December 25th usually found us at a local deli, eating kosher food, because we couldn't be bothered heading to my godparents' house for dinner. Dad knew I had pretty much said goodbye to my mother's family when I said goodbye to my mother. It was a chapter of my life that had ended, and I wanted to leave it behind.

Then another chapter ended. The Orphan's Christmas Party was on December 22, 1995. I was celebrating my independance, and mouring my loss, all at the same time. My friends were happy to gather round me, and I fed and watered tham well for their efforts. Sadly, most of those people were only superficial friends, but hey - you take what you can get. That was also the last Christmas Eve I spent with Steve and his family. Things got weird for him after that, and I had my own troubles. 1995 also saw me spend Christmas Day at the Cottage. Well, not my Cottage, but close enough. Dad's old friend and his family took me in. I could hardly conceal the love and joy I felt just for being surrounded by that which I loved most - them, their family and extended family, and the pine walls of my childhood. It was like being hugged on the inside. I'll Be Home for Christmas finally meant something to me.

Over the years, like Blanche Dubois, I came to rely on the kindness of strangers at Christmas. Thankfully, those strangers soon became friends. Christmas Day switched from The Cottage to Heather's house. Her mother was a helluva baker & cook, and they always had a little something under the tree for wayward me. It was a sense of family, if only for a moment.

By 2000, I had been to hell and back. I wanted to celebrate my return with a Christmas bash to rival the one in 1995. I called caterers. I invited people from all over North America. Tem was coming up. Heather was coming home. Life was grand! Till her mother fell deathly ill, and was admitted to the hospital on December 20th. All plans were cancelled, except for Heather's return which was more urgent than ever. Our Christmas miracle that year was Pat's survival. No party, but no funeral, either. I could live with that.

Christmas 2001 was non-existent. I got married on December 21st, and that rather overshadowed the holidays. With good cause, of course! But since then, I have had my fabulous husband by my side. Even when there were no presents undet the tree, and we didn't know if we could afford to eat - like last year! - we always had each other.

This year, I had a party. My first one in 8 years. The cast of characters was completely different. There was not a single one of them I had known for more than 6 months.

Does that mean I'm on a new chapter again?

A couple of weeks ago I received a package back from Iraq. It was one I sent to one of my soldiers (not the 82nd Airborne) for Thanksgiving. I was disturbed to see it returned to me. Just imagine the horrible things I must have been thinking!

Then I received an email from Soldiers Angels a couple of days ago, telling me that the division to which my soldier belonged was slowly returning home: Mission Accomplished! What wonderful news for the holidays!

And today, the best news of all:

Combat troops to be scaled back: Rumsfeld

Whether the bitter left wants to admit it or not, we are winning this war.

Merry Christmas to all the troops serving in Iraq.

I'm in a festive mood this morning. Maybe it's the Bailey's in my coffee (don't tell my boss!).

Go check out the Carnival of Christmas.

The only character who continued to draw my husband and I to The West Wing was that of Leo McGarry, played by veteran actor John Spencer.

Spencer died of a heart attack at age 58.

Although the show is notoriously left wing, I rather like this from ABC News:

While some of his co-stars, such as Martin Sheen, Rob Lowe and Bradley Whitford, were not shy about using their profile to support left-wing causes, Spencer said he was an entertainer first and foremost.

"I scream at the right-wingers on the talking-head shows," Spencer told Playboy magazine in 2001.

"At the same time, I make clear in all of my associations that I'm an actor who plays a politician.

"I let the problems of the free world go when I leave the studio."

I am a firm believer in the concept of "Shutup and sing!" so his policy was much appreciated.

Rest in peace.

I need a break. I'm getting worse and worse at blogging (I read some of my older posts last week, and I am depressed by the shit quality I have been producing of late), and what I write isn't even relevant by the time I write it.

Example, I went to a Conservative Party rally on Saturday, where Stephen Harper gave an outstanding speech. My husband took great pictures. I don't have time to get the pictures onto the computer, resize them appropriately, FTP them, and then write the damn post. And who cares anyway? It was four days ago! So much for news in real time.

Example, I have not been fulfilling my blogging commitments over at the Shotgun, and it's only a matter of time before they notice and cut me off. I will die without my gratis subscription to the Western Standard. So I owe it to Ezra and Kevin et al to devote a little more time over there. Quality time. Not the crap I've been coming out with lately.

I haven't done my Christmas cards, nor posted my last package of gifts to Iraq. These things are important to the recipients, and my healthy Catholic guilt is keeping me awake at night, knowing that these cards and gifts will not arrive in time for Christmas. I have officially spread my fat ass too thin.

So, blogging will be lighter than usual - and it's been nearly non-existent. At least until after the holidays, and maybe till after the election (January 23). I would like to concentrate on other things for the time being. My VRWChristmas Party is on Saturday, and I have muchos cooking, baking & cleaning to do. It's been years since I've had a proper Christmas party, and I want to devote my all to it. I also have the election campaign for my local candidate, which takes up a good deal of my time. Actually, it takes up almost all my time. I had to drag my hubby to the Harper rally on Saturday, because it was our only chance to be together in two weeks. I won't really see him again until late Friday night, when he'll step in to calm the pre-party nervous breakdown I'll be having. MustControlFistOfDeath will post her usual notes from time to time, and I will still be around. Just not as much.

In the spirit of the season and of the party, please get your fix at the sites of a few of my esteemed guests (I am not worthy to play hostess to such a crowd):

Angry in the Great White North
Relapsed Catholic
The American Princess (who is coming to see me all the way from Ann Arbor, MI)
North American Patriot
Let It Bleed

Despite theories to the contrary, I had parents once. I was not dropped here from a starship, nor was I sent by the devil (actually, that was my mother's theory). And when I was a kid, we had "normal Christmas". Normal Christmas meant the Nativity display on the bookshelf, a tree decorated in multi-colored lights and decorations (as opposed to designer "themed" trees), tons of baked goods, and lots of beauty. The presents were in colorful paper, with big bows, and the cards we gave and received were generally of the scenic variety, with deer in a pasture, or a horse drawn sleigh in front of a rustic barn. Icicles on trees, carollers with rosy cheeks - real Currier & Ives stuff. Even the cards my dad brought home from work were of the scenic or even the jolly Santa variety. My mother used to keep them, year after year. She would cut them up and we'd make Christmas collages with them. It was a fun project, and always produced something quirky to hang near the tree. In fact, the only really unattractive cards in the house used to be the ones I would make in school. Colored construction paper, some glitter, and an odd yellow crayon that was laying around. My mother loved these cards that I would make for her. After all, that was her job. To love the dreck I produced. SHe knew that it was something that no one else would find beautiful, but to her they were special. Her little girl made them. Aw, shucks and all that.

Now that dreck is the norm. Ugly is the new beautiful - to some marketer, anyway. While I still go out and buy pretty Christmas cards to send to my friends and family (as well as to give to my coworkers), I have noticed that the kind of "art" I produced in first grade is now what I am pulling out of gilt-edged envelopes at the office. Every major company has bought into the idea of sending charity cards (UNICEF, Oxfam, United Way etc), and every major charity has bought into the idea that drawings by five-year-olds are good enough to be mass marketed. I received one card last week that had a "snowman" on it, and that poor snowman was nothing more than a heap in a hat. Made me want to get out the hair dryer and put him out of his misery. In defence of the artiste responsible, I'm sure his/her mother was very proud. However, wouldn't it have been better if Mommy had just tacked the (offending) picture to the fridge, instead of sending it off to UNICEF where it would land on the desk of a complete stranger? Kids do all kinds of things that are cute to their parents. Artists are capable of accomplishing things that are attractive to many.

So enough with the ugly cards. If you want to give your money to charity, go ahead and do so, but you don't have to buy ugly cards to do it.

(Having said that, does anyone else remember when a certain charity in Canda (whom I cannot remember) used to send out packs of blank greeting cards, requesting a donation? The cards were done by artists with disabilities - some were mouth paintings from artisits with no arms. But they were extrordinary. Beautiful roses and trees. These people had an obvious talent, despite their physical and mental shortcomings. Why can't we have more of them, and less of the ugly child drawings?)

Tammy at A Mom and her Blog is hosting the Cotillion this week. I am not in attendance, as I have been pulled in all directions with all this campaign stuff. But Tammy has simply decided to hold the party in the parlour instead of the ballroom this week. Classy. So pull up a chair, either by the fire or by the tree, and let our hostess pour you some eggnog (low on egg, high in nog).

I meant to post this last night, but I was too busy (a campaign is a life-sucking illness that can only last so long, but may kill you before it's over!). I'm glad I didn't get the chance, because half of what I wrote would have been wrong.

Last night, as I left the office, I walked through Nathan Phillips Square. There was a group of people standing around the flame, holding candles (no, it was not the usual band of homeless people trying to keep warm!). Another protest, I thought, another rally. I moved a little closer, and could hear them quietly singing or chanting. Ugh. Being nearsighted, I had to move quite close in order to read the placards that were leaning, upside down, against the concrete gazebo (anyone from Toronto will know what I am describing).

TROOPS OUT OF AFGHANISTAN NOW

Oh for fuck sake. On the 64th anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor, these moonbats had the utter disrespect to be holding an anti-war rally? Disgusting. And I said as much (now wishing I hadn't, but I'll get to that part). So I called MustControlFistOfDeath to rant and rail a while. She made me laugh, and I felt better, but the bad taste was still in my mouth.

Well, this morning I read in the paper that the it was a vigil for the safe release of James Loney, one of the hostages being held in Iraq (Harmeet Singh Sooden was mentioned as an afterthought - is it because he currently resides in New Zealand, or because perhaps the multi-cult of Canada feels Mr. Signh Sooden has been overly "colonialized" for having joined a Christian peace organization, and Christians are meant to be boring white guys?). alright. I can accept a vigil to free a hostage who was obviously there to help. But what I cannot accept is that the vigil was organized by the Toronto Coalition to Stop the War.

When are they going to realize that we didn't just go into Afghanistan for fun? We went in because our continent was attacked. We did not cast the first stone. And they also need to realize that James Loney and the forgotten Harmeet Singh Sooden will most likely be killed (face it now), and it is not because our troops are in Afghanistan or because the American are in Iraq. Loney & Singh Sooden will be murdered because they are Christian. America was attacked because it is Christian. Canada is on the death list because it is Christian (sort of, for now).

I am curious if the Toronto Coalition to Stop the War already knows that, and is too cowardly to come out and say what they are truly thinking :

GET CHRISTIANITY OUT OF CANADA NOW

If you're looking for the Cotillion just because it's Tuesday, you won't find it. There will be no pretty roundup with lots of great pictures. But if you knock on the door and you know the secret password, you'll be entertained in a far more interesting way.

The "ladies" of the Cotillion are slinging mud, pulling hair, and ripping each other's dresses off our nubile bodies. It's a catfight.

In other words, it's time for the Weblog Awards. Happy voting, y'all.

Best New Blog

Merri Musings
Atlas Shrugs
Common Sense Runs Wild
Soldier's Angel Holly Aho

Best Group Blog

*The Cotillion*

Best Conservative Blog

The Anchoress

Best Culture/Gossip Blog

Knowledge Is Power

Best Canadian Blog

A North American Patriot

Best European Blog (Non-UK)

Free Thoughts

Best Top 250

My Vast Right Wing Conspiracy

Best 251-500

baldilocks
Florida Cracker

Best 501-100

The American Princess
Armies of Liberation
reasoned audacity

Best 1001-1750

Maxed Out Mama
Right Wing Sparkle
Portia Rediscovered
Girl On The Right

Islamic Jihad Suicide Bomber Kills Five

Such nice people.

I'd like to thank the Academy... Oh wait, that's the wrong speech.

As it turns out, I've actually been nominated for best blog in the 1001-1750 category. I've never been nominated for anything before. Cool.

Voting starts tomorrow.

I never thought I'd be linking to a story at Rabble, but...

Yves Engler, a member of Haiti Action Montreal and a frequent contributor to rabble.ca, is being kept in jail over the weekend after he disrupted a speech by the Prime Minister Thursday morning shouting "Paul Martin lies, Haitians die."

Crown prosecutors refused to grant his release when Engler appeared in court Friday, 30 hours after being detained. He will be in court again Monday.

"Keeping someone in jail for at least four days because he heckled a politician during an election campaign is completely outrageous," said Nikolas Barry-Shaw, spokesperson for Haiti Action Montreal. "Has shouting at a politician become a crime in Canada?"

The rules of the New Canada: Keep your mouth shut, and don't badmouth the Liberals.

Whatever Engler's politics, heckling at a political press conference during an election campaign is hardly reason to be thrown in the clink.

"It's a strange world when Conrad Black is accused of stealing $80 million but has spent no time behind bars, while I heckled the Prime Minister and get locked up for at least four days."

Yes, but Mr. Engler, how much has the Liberal government stolen? They are not in jail, either.

Apparently a Ukrainian proverb, as told to us by Jurij Klufas, regarding the Liberals.

Just got home from the first Klufas fundraiser of the campaign. A wine and cheese at Swansea Brew Club - more wine than cheese, I'm afraid, so bear with me.

Have you ever thought to yourself, just before a party, "What if no one comes?" Well, that's how I felt co-organizing this event. Then the first person showed up. And the seceond and third. Then a family. Soon there were a couple dozen people, shaking hands, clinking glasses, and writing checks. Lots of checks.

Congratulations, Jurij. Your campaign is officially on, and you are moving at full speed to the top.

...but I really want to go to CPAC. Since we're all still in holiday mode, I was hoping you would be so kind and generous as to make a donation to my CPAC fund. It's only 6 weeks away, and with flight, hotel and ticket, it's going to be tight. Any amount will be appreciated.

Many thanks.

I will be keeping this post at the top until I get closer to my goal, so if you get sick of looking at it - SEND MONEY!