Of course, what do I know?

Tarina Tarantino, Savannah Squirrel & Princess Augusta: Helfen Mich!

2012-02-09T11:22:00.000-08:00

As of late, yours truly has been greatly distracted and engaged by the likes of my dear pal Miss Hannah Hart, ghostdame of the Hotel Del (her latest piece being a gracious and geeky ode to Charles Dickens, Mark Twain and Leonard Nimoy on the former's 200th birthday); my Darlings of Orange County and it's forthwith release; the launch of my new website www.jennypop.net; and the great fun of being @JennyPopNet (v cool writer pals, fashion friends and a host of other fellow dorks). Forget not my lost, Christmas days wherein I was held captive and totally against my will inside Pirates of the Caribbean at Disneyland.

My tootsies and, hmm, someone's ... I faintly recall those heady, Christmas days inside POTC.

In those spare moments when I'm not Tweeting, blogging, editing, primping, ghosting and pirating, I have been dutifully and diligently researching, developing and gathering facts, dates, details and tidbits like a perky squirrel gathering perfect branches and bits of shiny, gold string for her new nest. Sans doute, this next installment of Savannah of Williamsburg is proving the most difficult yet of all past titles.

As the pre-Revolutionary, historical-fiction series moves closer to said-Revolution, more and more information, names, relationships and events become apparent and, happily?, available: diary entries, letters, museum and library archives and newspaper accounts, including digital indices for every, single edition of the London Gazette printed since 1665 ... sigh. Similar to picking minced onions out of a tabouli salad, this is going to take a while.

Who could it be? Sad, but inevitable.

I am well into my research, have set A, B, and C stories -including the death of a beloved mainstay, which makes for some fab, very Goth, 18thC. funeral studies- and have most of my main characters set, including a new animal. As readers of the series will know I add a new fellow, in addition to the main three animal folk of Savannah, Dante & Ichabod, to each tale: Petruchio the Mastiff, Book I; Pomeroy the Sea gull, Book II; Sterling di Padua the Fox, Book III. What I do not have is a strong, tight outline. I also do not have nearly enough antique, ship's decanters filled with port wine, a new pair of pink, Juicy Couture sunglasses, Tarina Tarantino's Sparlicity hair and décolletage glimmer or a wicker basket for my pink-and-white beach cruiser. Perhaps, introducing my new characters in one place might gel something in my noodle; and get me closer to my sunglasses and hair glitter, I mean, glimmer. (It's different: glitter is for tweens, glimmer is for yummy ladies.)

Mmmm, winter Sparlicity by Tarina Tarantino ... why have I none?

Meet the Characters of Savannah of Williamsburg: Prince George, Mercy's Controversy & Washington's Defeat, Virgina 1755 (working title)


Princess Augusta of Saxe-Gotha-Altenburg, mother of Prince Geroge

HRH George, Prince of Wales, aged 13

George Washington, aged 23 and aide-de-camp to General Braddock


Gen. Edward Braddock ... of the French and Indian Wars great debacle, Braddock's Defeat

Mrs. Mercy Otis Warren: poet, dramatist, political satirist, Massachusetts trouble-maker

Okay, back to work pour Moi.

Hold on, Miss Tess. Book IV will be here someday! Photo: Laine Corvus

I write like I drink: alone and with a monkey watching me. -Krusty the Clown

The Darlings of Orange County: New Cover Art

2012-02-04T10:50:00.000-08:00

No verbose, sesquipedalian and rhapsodic rodomontades today ... just very cool new Darlings artwork!


New & Improved with just a dash of O.C. fairy dust!

Original model: same concept, but missing that hint of diamonds, trust fund hippies and murder

Note: Title is currently being formatted for Kindle & Nook via their platforms and Sony Reader & iPads via ePub. Join The Darlings of Orange County fan page on FB, or check in with Moi on Twitter@JennyPopNet for publication release date and any upcoming events. Have any quintessential Orange County quotes or stories? Share those, too, at the fan page! It all coincides with www.jennypop.net launch. I know, it's been raw-ther the delay on both. Ever read the Tao of Pooh? It shall be worth it, my pretties! Je vous promis ;)

Ciao!

Two Mice, One Brain: One is a genius, the Other's Insane.

2012-02-03T22:35:00.000-08:00

Our two superheroes pooled together their entire life-savings: twenty-seven cents and a skate key!

-Rocky and Bullwinkle

Valentine's Day issue of Skirt! 2009 Photo by Eleise Theuer

Apropos to the fervid and flirty month of Fevrier, the above snap is an excerpt from a St. Valentine's Day issue of Skirt! magazine, featuring yours truly and Monsieur Yours Truly during our sojourn in the Old Dominion. A women's lifestyle publication available nationwide with regional, mostly Southern, emphases, this particular issue of Skirt! highlighted "strong women" -aw, shucks- and I was chosen from amongst a bevy of Virginia lassies, to share a Valentine's musing or two.

In addition to a smashing plug for my Savannah of Williamsburg Series and a lovely, morning photo session in chilly, jazzy, uptown Ghent, there were also brief bios on both mein Mann und mich, as well as a quote from each, on each. The V-Day edition was dubbed He Said, She Said and to date it is my very favourite of all the publicity pieces I've ever garnered. Thank you, by the by, to the remarkably charming and generous then-Skirt! market editor Kim Wadsworth. Ms. Wadsworth is also the founder and current editor-in-chief of Vow Bride magazine: a Virginia-based bridal and dream wedding publication, very apropos to le mois d'amour! Merci, Madame Kim! (Note to brides: short of our dual wedding ceremonies in both Kandersteg, Switzerland and Laguna Beach, California, you've rarely seen so lovely a wedding as Virginia nuptials. Old Dominion + Old Money + Old Blood = sumptuous Jefferson/horse country fetes!)

He Said: Besides being an intelligent and hilarious beauty, Jennifer makes me believe there’s nothing we can’t do together. Whether bushwhacking the Alaskan outback to shoot a travelogue or relocating to India, she’s gung-ho for the adventure and I love her for that. *Awww! Blush!!*

She Said: OMG! Could I laugh any harder? It’s like living with Will Ferrell! It’s a wicked, smart, lightning-strike-funny like Ricky Gervais or Eddie Izzard. My side constantly hurts! Plus, he’s gorgeous, like a hero from Nordic mythology.

Happy Valentine's Day! Narf!


Honey, they're fine. They're not drug addicts, they're not axe murderers, they're not Democrats. -The Other Sister

We're too good for them. They ain't tough enough, smart enough or fast enough. -Public Enemies

This is all we need ... some coffee, good conversation, just you and me and five bucks. -Reality Bites

If our next gig is in a 7-11 parking lot, we'll find a way to make it fun! -Conan O'Brien

What are we going to do tonight, Brain? The same thing we do every night, Pinky ... try and take over the world!

In the end, this is why it works so well

Pinky and the Brain lyrics, in case you don't know them by heart. Of course, who doesn't?

They're Pinky and The Brain
Yes, Pinky and The Brain
One is a genius
The other's insane.
They're laboratory mice
Their genes have been spliced
They're dinky
They're Pinky and The Brain, Brain, Brain, Brain
Brain, Brain, Brain, Brain
Brain.

Before each night is done
Their plan will be unfurled
By the dawning of the sun
They'll take over the world.

They're Pinky and The Brain
Yes, Pinky and The Brain
Their twilight campaign
Is easy to explain.

To prove their mousey worth

They'll overthrow the Earth
They're dinky
They're Pinky and The Brain, Brain, Brain, Brain
Brain, Brain, Brain, Brain

Narf!

"Where Are the Girls on Banana Seat Bicycles? The Ones With No Shoes on Their Feet?"

2012-01-29T17:19:00.000-08:00

Why, they're in San Diego, Miss Jannie of Texas ... on Barbie-pink beach cruisers actually ...

with Minnie Mouse espadrilles, in lieu of bare feet!

Meet Miss Sadie Schwinn!

Motorcycles? Puh-shaw!

By way of introduction, I present to you the chanteuse and lyricist, Miss Jannie Funster, Yellow Rose of Texas. Jannie's tagline? Writing songs and singing for donuts and beer! How do you not like a gal like that?! Songbird Jannie brings to mind, in an instant, the bistro stylings of France's Femme Premiere, Mrs. Carla Bruni-Sarkozy, with a little Disney princess tossed in to flavour. Miss Jannie and I became aware of each other one fateful, cyberday when her blog and mine rattled sabers on the subject of Mrs. Cindy McCain. In fact, the clash was sorely mistaken; for it came to be known we both shared an opinion of Miss Cindy and it was a favorable one: It's her beer money ... don't Cindy-hate!

Jannie's world-famous SPAM Yoga Photo: Jannie Funster

Serendipitously, we found each other to be weird and unorthodox free spirits and though we have differing views on music (she-Rolling Stones/Bob Dylan; me-Weezer/Marilyn Manson) and SPAM (she-likes it; me-puke) we both agree having a wine drinking-tree is a fine idea and that pets and husbands make the best friends ever. We also agree yoga and Guinness are equally good for you, museums and book stores are an excellent way to spend a day and that a random row of yellow Mini Coopers is worth stopping to take a snap.


Letters from the Austin Public Library Photo: Jannie Funster

In the last five years, Miss Jannie and I have traded blog comments and, even better, the odd, physical correspondence via actual U.S. Snail Mail: a carefully wrapped package of beach glass from CA to TX, Christmas cards and the occasional, simple Ciao! on a hand-pressed floral note card. Amidst these, Jannie proffers poetry, songs, stories and mondo pictures at her website. Hoffenlich, I proffer the same, minus the songs, to keep her and others as amused and bemused as she does her many readers, as well as Moi-meme.

So, Miss Jannie, in your latest musical offering, you ask Where are the girls on banana seat bicycles, who used to fly down the street? The song is an evocation of pretty childhoods and summer romances, of sparkly blue seats, matching handlebar streamers and magical flights. If you're not careful, the song will bring a wee tear to your eye ... menfolk, too.

Well, it seems to me the girls are everywhere fun and free spirit is to be found, wherever a life is free of concern, but full of care. They are in Austin and San Diego, in Germany and Napa: home of the lovely ones whom had the banana seat souls enough to gift me Miss Sadie Schwinn. Though they don't allow bicycles through the hallowed gates of Disneyland, when one is there the banana seat souls cycle down every sparkling inch of Magic Kingdom paths. If you have a banana seat bicycle soul, I urge you to join the odd and fantastical Janniverse. If your soul is not of the banana seat ilk, maybe Jannie and I can help you!

Just a girl ... and her bike and her summer romance

Ciao, y'all! See you in the Janniverse!

Cheers and beers, Miss Jannie of Texas!!

The Return of Devore: Wherein I Recall Little Except an Undead Monkey & a Rubik's Cube

2012-01-20T16:31:00.000-08:00

As the Quebecois motto proudly states on its license plates, "Je me souviens!" I remember!

First of all, a very special thank you to my dear pal, Miss Hannah Hart, ghostdame of the Hotel Del! Since Christmas, I have had limited ability to connect with the outside world. When I have been able to, I've seen that Hannah took excellent care of all my friends and even took a stab at writing some guest-posts. Thank you, Hannah! Of course, she writes of her own spectral adventures at another site: GoodtobeaGeek.com. Her latest is a lovely tribute to Edgar Allen Poe and his secret admirer: Inspector Hannah: The Curious Mysteries of the Poe Toaster & the Antarctic Ghost Octopi

Zowie, babies! I'm Hannah, nice to meetcha!

Well, I, Jennifer Susannah Devore, have returned and for the most part, after reading Hannah's guest-posts, starting with the initial accounts of my mysterious whereabouts titled Meet Miss Hannah Hart, reports were mostly accurate. I have been indisposed and though exact memory escapes me, most of my missing days were spent inside Pirates of the Caribbean at Disneyland with one overnight, marathon spinning on The Mad Hatter's Tea Cups and a New Year's Eve party to die for inside the Haunted Mansion. Forgive the pun. Lazy writing, I know. Cut me some slack, though. I barely recall where I live or what I do. I think that pirate in the mud with the two pigs slipped something in my grog and I know that Madame Leota gave me some bad Jujubees. By the way, that ballroom bash going on 24/7 in the Haunted Mansion? Man, that bash is bonkers once you're actually in on the party! As Hannah would say, Zowie!

What? I didn't do nuthin!

What I do recall is that I woke up on the beach with a solved Rubik's Cube in my Hello Kitty lunchbox, beach squirrels taking pictures of me with tiny Droid phones and an undead monkey sitting on top of me and watching The Office on my Kindle. Where the heck did the Kindle come from?

Hearing The Office theme song play against the crash of the waves snapped me back to reality. I recalled I work in an office, too! I sell paper and live in a small town in Pennsylvania. Life is good there, but the winter's can be harsh and sometimes it's a little boring. Luckily, there are great Irish pubs in Scranton, the town where I live, love and work. Happily, my best friends are also my work mates.

My very favorite people in the office are named Dwight Schrute, Andy Bernard and Erin Hannon. That's not odd for me; some of my best friends have always been guys. (Psst! Guys often just make better friends: no pettiness, no jealousy, no passive-aggressiveness, just fun, jokes, beer and honesty ... except that they usually want to sleep with you. Ha! Good luck!) I also have some friends in the U.K. branch in Slough. Gareth is my pal over there. What a nutter! Softly, softly catch a monkey.

Dwight and I share a lot in common where sci-fi, fantasy, anime and historical-accuracy are involved. Andy and I had very similar upbringings and get on like a couple of old ladies at brunch in the Hamptons. We get each other. I mean, why is it that if you had a wretched childhood you can talk about it all day long; but, if you had a privileged one and you bring up examples, say sailing lessons or birthday cars, people look at you like you're growing a tail? Erin is kind of like a guy, in that she's totally honest, doesn't play mind games and is usually happy. I like happy. I also like Guinness, I think.

I'm not a complete cow. Some women are okay and I do have a few female friends in the office. Angela Martin, Kelly Kapoor and Pam Beesly-Halpert are all excellent company in their own regards. Angela and I are both vegetarians, know what it's like to have be one's own grandmother and she has an amazing collection of lace blouses. I love lace blouses, I think! Kelly and I can shop for hours on end and only she understands the need to know what is going on with Johnny Depp and his girl Vanessa. (What is going on, by the way?) Pam is just sweet and I like that she's an artist. Maybe she can illustrate the graphic novel-iterations of my books someday ... wait a minute. Books. Do I have something to do with books? Well, books are made out of paper, I think. Are they still made of paper? That must be it. Now, there are a few other fun things about my workplace, like the Office Olympics. See, when our boss, Micahel Sco ... what? Really?

My friends: Hmm, I must be behind the boxes. Photo: NBC Universal

Okay, my Viking is telling me this is all wrong. He said none of this is real and that I, in fact, do not work in a paper supply company. More importantly, we do not live in Scranton, PA. That would explain the ocean view and the beach this morning. Still, what about Andy's garden party at Dwight's beet farm? That was beautiful and I loved Erin's hat! What? Okay, he's saying that wasn't real either. He says I write squirrel books and a little bit of trash. He also says the writing style in this post is weird for me and lacking what he calls my "usual verbosity and sesquipedalian nature". Whaaat? What does sesquipedalaian even mean? Is that even a real word? Is he messing with me? Is that Klingon? Does this have something to do with the undead monkey? What about the Rubik's Cube? Who solved it? Did I? Did the monkey solve it? Gasp! What if I have a genius monkey?!

Now he's telling me I need to rest and that it might be a good idea if I turned off the telly for a while. He's funny. Turn off the TV. Oh, look! I wasn't expecting company! My British pals, Eddie Monsoon and Patsy Stone are here! Now these girls, I like. They are Absolutely Fabulous, I tell you! Break out the BoliStolis, dahlings! (Bollinger champagne and Stolichnaya vodka cocktails, FYI) Wait! Where'd they go? Why are you turning that off? It's all gone black! I don't understand. Maybe he's right; maybe I should rest. I might be seeing things. Can you put King of the Hill on in the background while I fall asleep? Where is the narrator? I always have a narrator.

To quote Renée Zellweger, "I'm confused."

Red Wine? Check. Candles? Check. Priest? Check. Season Two of American Horror Story? Check?

2012-01-13T18:33:00.000-08:00

Missing author update: For those of you keeping track, Jennifer Susannah Devore, geek extraordinaire and historical-fantasy author, went missing sometime prior to Christmas in what was assumed to be a Disneyfied, festivity-laden bender. Recent reports placed her deep inside the Pirates of the Caribbean attraction at Disneyland. Newly verified reports from within the Park, supplied by a reliable specter from inside The Haunted Mansion and whom would like to remain anonymous, state the author is doing well but exhausted after a particularly aggressive New Year's Eve debacle. Latest photos show her in good spirits and we expect to lure her from the ride any day now. Apparently, she does not want to leave and will have to be bribed with a pair of Christian Louboutins, hot pink and size 8, and anything from Tiffany & Co.

Evidence: the author spotted in POTC, the ride. Does not look worse for the wear. Photo: George Beahm

Apropos to good spirits and haunted mansions, it's me: Miss Hannah Hart, ghost dame of the Hotel del Coronado. Until Madame Dorky gets her perky bum back to writing, like she's supposed to, I thought you cats might like a spooky Friday the 13th musing, from Moi! Enjoy a little American Horror Story!

SAG Awards Update to American Horror Story post: January 29, 2012
Ditto, what I wrote below about the Golden Globes, including the part about Dr. Lucy and me having Kir Royales and watching the 18th Annual SAG Awards in our Hotel Del. Additionally, Miss Jessica Lange just scooped Outstanding Performance By A Female Actor In A Drama Series for her role as Constance Langdon in FX's American Horror Story. Brava, Ms. Lange!

Golden Globe Update to American Horror Story post: January 15, 2012
Some of you cats may have preconceived notions of us ghosties. Well, listen up, Wheat. As much as it pains me to say, we are not prescient, we do not have extrasensory perception (ESP); we can neither see into nor predict the future. We are just like you, except we can travel with preternatural speed and levity, can pinch wine from the bar and blame it on the night crew, and have remarkably long histories. Just like you, we also watch Hollywood awards shows and have gut-feelings and strong opinions about whom will take home what. (Dr. Lucy and I are enjoying the 69th Annual Golden Globe Awards a ce moment inside my turret room at the Hotel Del. Kir Royales, anyone?) As it behooves the following piece, the legendary Jessica Lange did indeed earn a Golden Globe for Best Supporting Actress/TV for her role as Constance Langdon on FX's American Horror Story. Jessica Lange praises American Horror Story writers [at the Globes], saying, "More than anything, I want to thank the writers, because I find it more and more rare, or rarer, every year to find a piece of work that is really beautifully written, and gives you something to do.", according to CNN Showbiz journalist David Daniel @CNNLADavid. Congratulations and well done, Ms. Lange.

Ciao, dolls! Now that the holidays and the New Year hangovers have settled, Dr. Lucy and I have mellowed back into our very fine grooves, haunting our lovely Hotel Del. Although, some of the staff and their common manners are severely lacking as of late, odd for such a hallmark in the world of service: P.R. department in particular. I think we might have some fun with them in these quiet days of January. My pally in the elevator, Edward, may be able to help us offer up a scare or two even. Going down? What fun for winter boredom!

In the meanwhile, babies, I've been making keen use of my Christmas Kindle and watching loads of, not just Ghost Hunters, Midsomer Murders and Warehouse 13, but a new fave: American Horror Story. Not since The X-Files or late night shoots with Errol Flynn have I looked more forward to moonlight. Not to mention watching on a night like this: Friday the 13th! Murder! (You don't suffer from triskaidekaphobia, do you? Silly kittens!) Also, not unlike The X-Files and the original swashbuckler, this horror story simply cannot be thoroughly enjoyed during daylight hours and is best not attempted without a bottle of red or, at the very least, a Washington martini (gin-soaked, filthy and with three fat olives: each representing the three branches of government ... you do know those, don't you?).

Not for the spiritually or visually squeamish, and you cats know I'm neither, AHS is a satisfying, ocular cocktail with equal parts Hitchcock suspense, unsettling 1930s carnival freakshow, vintage L.A. funk and scads of sexual oddities: all with just enough shock-and-awe to coat the glass and remind you it might be television, but it's definitely cable. Zowie! (Standards and Practices aren't the wet blankets they were in my day, are they?!)

Naturally, as with too many wicked-smaht series running amuck in TV's own dead house à la The Others (Arrested Development, for one glaring example), there is a universal fear as great as that of coming face-to-face with James Carville in an abandoned cabin in the Maine woods -egad!- that Middle America might not tolerate the Golden Globe-nominated for Best Drama Series/TV American Horror Story with the same religious devotion as some of we Coasters do. Although, Season Two is already in high gear and I wait anxiously the return of my fave Haunted Mansion, north of Anaheim at any rate.

Screaming for a swell, club-mix soundtrack infused with Rage Against the Machine, The Smiths, Marilyn Manson and maybe a touch of Beastie Boys for the lighter, bouncier freak fare, AHS punches up more stomach-jarring drops and reality jolts into darkness than a Wright Brothers' transatlantic Red Eye. With enough characters and flashbacks to rival a time-travel, Celtic fantasy novel, the oft comic-noir (to those of us with a taste for gallows humor), bloody series invites us into a veritable palace of the dead, the 10K sq. ft. 1908 Rosenheim Mansion in L.A.'s posh Hancock Park, and proves that the afterlife, much like alcohol and fame, merely magnifies personality traits, and billable disorders.

Rosenheim Horror House, Hancock Park, L.A. Photo: Loren Javier

Guided by the chilly, blue hands of the curious brains behind the likes of Nip/Tuck, Entourage, The X-Files (natch), Dollhouse, Midnight Cowboy, Glee, Roswell and even true horror entertainment like ABC's The Bachelor and the Julia Roberts feature Eat, Pray, Love, we are led into a Green Room, hovering type of existence populated with far too much relationship muck and back-stabbing, literally, to even attempt a back story here. Suffice it to say the lead male is a psychologist treating patients, living, undead and otherwise, in his haunted home. Red flag, babies! Not since Alan Thicke's Dr. Seaver on Growing Pains was there a more obtuse shrink. Dr. Ben Harmon, however, may top the charts. Played beautifully, aesthetically as well as dramatically, by the very fine Dylan McDermott, his man foibles are almost forgivable, almost ... until his potently sympathetic family (Boston transplants like me!) comprised of wife Vivien, daughter Violet, and their precious pup Hallie Harmon, plead with you not to be so quick to alleviate his guilt. Not to be bested on any facet, though, is the phenomenal, SAG- and Golden Globe-nominated Jessica Lange.

Part Designing Women's Julia Sugarbaker and part 1980's Nancy Reagan, Jessica Lange's Constance Langdon is as icily polite and hospitably, politically incorrect as a 1960s Virginia country club conceding to diversity applicants. She's an utter pleasure on-screen and, with apologies to a very worthy cast, carries the show on her regal shoulders. I shudder to think what might happen were she to bail. With an upper middle-class '60s sensibility and a coiffure that is almost certainly wrapped and pinned in bathroom tissue each night, she bakes up delightfully toxic pleasantries in an accent far more suited to the drooping humidity of a Richmond summer than to the bright and shiny California climes where she finds herself and her spectral, wastrel wards forever more. So unnerving, arresting and dead-on is her FFV (First Family of Virginia) demeanor, and trust me, I know a few by which to judge, one just might partake in one of her pretty, rat poison cupcakes served up with coffee, lest Constance takes note of one's lacking, social graces.

Now, my take on the afterlife is that it’s simply divine. Of course, I met my demise in the Hotel del Coronado, so I get to spend eternity with room service, a poolside bar and pricey gift shops galore. The bee’s knees, I tell ya! I do have the “dresses on a dead girl” issue and the poor etiquette of the hotel’s P.R. people who just blow my wig at every turn, but that’s all manageable, if not terribly easy or amusing. Whatever your take on death is, ashes to ashes and dust to dust, or forever reside where you died, I think we all might agree, dead or alive, on a given opinion.

Like reality TV, take Real Housewives of Beverly Hills for a glittering example, American Horror Story is aces fun to watch; but, my afterlife reality is sheer, smooth bliss. If you find yourself in an AHS afterlife situation, you have to ask yourself, What did I do to get here? and How the Hell do I get out? Until then, get your wine, light your candles and have your priest on speed dial … just in case.

Not a bad afterlife, if I do say so myself!

Abyssinia the afterlife, cats!

Love dishing about #AmericanHorrorStory? So does Madame Dorky herself @JennyPopNet!
For more Hannah Hart, search her name in www.goodtobeageek.com search bar or visit www.amazon.com/author/jenniferdevore

Hannah Hart Blows the Rose Parade, and Jennifer May Have Been Found

2012-01-03T10:45:00.000-08:00

It's a strong lead and we've got the proper authorities on the case. Author, blogger and dorkette Jennifer Susannah Devore, best known for her Savannah of Williamsburg Series of Books and soon-to-be-released novel The Darlings of Orange County, is reported to be lost somewhere on Pirates of the Caribbean at Disneyland. At last report, a longtime resident of Rivers of America, a rather animated mallard named Theo, said he saw a woman of her description head into the Pirates attraction with a Viking and a strawberry blonde of questionable moral fiber, sometime prior to Christmas Day. Disney waterfowl and cast members familiar with Jennifer have been searching the ride day and night; thus far, if they are inside, they are blending in remarkably well. Volunteer investigators have been instructed to keep an extra sharp eye around all Captain Jack Sparrow audio animatronic displays. Reports from The Happiest Place on Earth shall continue. Please report any findings or post any possible lead photos from inside Disneyland to Twitter@JennyPopNet.

No comment

Meanwhile, Miss Hannah Hart, ghost dame of the Hotel del Coronado is still covering the paranormal lifestyle and travel desk for www.goodtobeageek.com .

Latest report from Pasadena's 2012 Tournament of Roses Parade ... kind of.

Happy Hanukkah, Merry Christmas and Mele Kalikimaka to All!

2011-12-24T12:34:00.000-08:00

For those of us robbed of a snowy holiday season in California, aliens landed last night and planted lei-bedecked Christmas rock-trees to proffer us a tropical holiday ... or, to distract us and divert our attention while they commence colonization.

Psst ... they must be the aliens. It appears they have divined the sculptures in self-portraiture.

Merry Merry to All!

(Hannah Hart here, btw and still looking for Jen ... maybe lost somewhere in Disneyland? For the continuing stooory of moi, Miss Hannah Hart, ghostdame of the Hotel del Coronado, jazz on over to my geek site! There's been a change of my holiday plans; I also intend to check out the Rose Parade this year. Check back at www.goodtobeageek.com.)

Meet Miss Hannah Hart, ghost dame of the Hotel del Coronado

2011-12-12T16:19:00.000-08:00

So, here's the hard-boiled situation, all you cats and alligators. I'm Hannah Hart and I'm taking the keyboard for a bit here. Ms. Devore is sleeping one off, I'm pretty sure. Well, as far as I know. Last I saw her she was face down and chassis up on the deck of a Mission Bay yacht and sea gulls were using her Blackberry to take embarrassing pictures of her and sending them to friends in Australia. What a Dumb Dora. I told her to take it easy on the Manhattans; she's a lightweight, clearly. I also told her to wear a longer dress to the party; it's Christmas, not Slutmas. You modern girls are so weak. You can't handle whiskey or your panties like we used to. Pathetic.

Ah, applesauce! Sorry, you'd dig some more details about me, right? Easy peasy. I'm a ghost. Pretty simple. I died in 1934 and since then have lived a sparkly, splendid, Sidecar-infused eternity at San Diego's spiffy Hotel del Coronado. How did I die? You know what, dolls? I'm doing a little writing for a geek-culture site called goodtobeageek.com. Look for my bio under "Miss Hannah Hart" in Meet the Geeks (third from the top) and, mitt me, kids! ... my inaugural piece made Featured Posts: Home for the Holidays: Stale Pecans, Dial-up & Girlie Martinis.

See, I said you cats can't handle your giggle juice

Hopefully Jen will be back to writing soon. I got a ringy-dingy from her phone, but I think it was a crank from one of those sea gulls. Those goons are bonkers, I tell ya, bonkers!

Abyssinia, guys and dolls!

This Used to be Allllll Orange Groves! Happy Birthday, Mr. Disney!

2011-12-05T16:01:00.000-08:00

Like scribing Christmas, Hanukkah or Thank You cards, or even a Trader Joe's shopping list, birthday greetings can be difficult to jazz up when looking at one after another, crafting unique and heartfelt sentiments. Yes, even within a T.J.'s list, this can be a task. This is not to be taken as a chore, nay; for I adore sending cards, notes and general howdies. (Not to be confused with General Howdy, commander of plush forces at Snoopy Western Town.) It is important to me, however, to send a fervid and friendly message, not just a mere signature.

As you may note, my previous post was a birthday greeting to auteur, Mr. Woody Allen. Now, mere days later it is the 110th anniversary of the birth of one Walter Elias Disney, one of those few on my reluctant heroes list. (Save your howls and codfish mouths, all you Hakken-Kraks. Those contrarians who merely wish to hate will call him nasty names and accuse him of horrid deeds. Fie on thee. Walt Disney is an American icon, a symbol of imagination and tenacity at its most fruitful. He birthed a worldwide institution. Shame on you.)

It's true, it did all start with a mouse ... and a squirrel. (Photo by Jeff Tabaco)

Searching my noodle for a short (Ha!) and pithy way to offer a posthumous salaam, it occurred to me I had already done so within my latest novel. It further occurred to me that with the delay in publication of The Darlings of Orange County, it might be a nice opportunity to offer up my Hail Fellow, Well Met! to the man from Kansas City, as well as treating those of you awaiting this book with a tiny glimpse of my Darlings. It shall also serve as proof that there is indeed an upcoming novel! Please note, this is not a taste of the trashy, salacious, fetid garbage for which the name Jennifer Devore will soon become synonymous; this is an establishing shot, if you will, of a chapter which eventually leads to said-devolution.

So, without further ado, a wee excerpt from The Darlings of Orange County (all material copyrighted):

The last time Ryan was here, officially, was his third-year internship when he was working long hours without pay for Bette Midler and her entertainment company All Girl Productions. Interning was merely another word for schlepping shopping bags, purses and briefcases up from the parking lot for Bette's partner and friend, Bonnie Bruckheimer. Now, Ryan laughed to himself. He was here to meet with her ex-husband, Jerry Bruckheimer, about a development deal. Talk about swinging one's way up from the bottom branches.

The movie lot was iconic, and exactly the same as he and Veronica remembered: the gigantic, 85-foot Sorcerer's hat visible from the 134-freeway, the classic Walt Disney Studios script flourishing over the Alameda entrance and most notably, the twenty-foot sculptures of Walt’s Seven Dwarfs greeting those whom entered the Michael D. Eisner Building, formerly known as Team Disney. All the Dwarfs did their bit, holding up the Parthenon-styled pediment; yet Dopey did the lion's share of the work, holding the roof steady at its apex. The biggest difference now, since Ryan’s days on the lot, was the bridge connecting ABC to WDS across the freeway: a happy path all the way to Buena Vista Distribution, a hefty jewel in the Disney treasure chest.

More whimsical and, depending on whom you ask, more controversial in its history than Paramount, Universal and Warner Bros., the Walt Disney Studios were manageable, cheerful and welcoming. Naturally, there were the de rigueur struggles of any studio going on behind the magic; but it certainly didn’t seem that way to Veronica and Ryan as they were waved through the gates by a smiling guard whom had first scrutinized, then validated their Mickey parking permit.

They parked in a nearby lot and entered the Michael D. Eisner Building with reverence. Veronica watched the Seven Dwarfs as she moved and silently pontificated the concept of "Disney's Folly": the derogatory, underground title the entertainment world gave Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs before its premiere, before its true art was realized. The general acceptance of fantasy and imagination had come so far since then and Veronica had pioneers like Mr. Disney to thank for that.

One serendipitous day back in the Kansas of the early 20^th Century, Walter Elias Disney had seen a little mouse near the wastebasket in his office and, instead of seeing a pest, saw an inspiration, a friend even. Veronica understood that completely.

Still, despite the tracks fantasy had made some eighty years later, Veronica was constantly explaining, and tiring very quickly of doing so, the concept of a talking, clothed squirrel to folks. One would think she was explaining the pathology of the Ebola virus or the stellar route of Voyager 1 to some people when she described her French-speaking, violin-playing, globetrotting squirrel. Clearly, imagination was not for everyone. Good thing she was on the Disney lot.

Nothing more sincere than Disney joy and smiles!

Happy Birthday, Mr. Disney and thank you!

Happy Birthday, Woody Allen!

2011-12-01T21:57:00.000-08:00

I don't know how the can opener works! How do I know why Hitler came to power?

-Radio Days

Photo courtesy of Colin Swan

Bon Anniversaire, Buon Compleanno and, most importantly, in the language of the Woody Allen's Woody Allen, director Ingmar Bergman, Grattis på födelsedagen! As the venerable auteur has become almost as much a European filmmaker as a New York filmmaker, I offer birthday greetings representing his claimed homes-away-from home of late: Paris, Venice and Stockholm.

Keeping this post short is a necessity, as I am wont to ramble, gush, babble and adulate ad nauseum given the space. If I do not reign myself in, I shall serve only to embarrass myself as I drool sycophantically on my silk sweater.

Ergo, as heroes go I have an extremely short list. I generally look to myself for inspiration and work diligently to outdo said-self where I can. Still, whether one seeks them or not, one tends to have luminaries. At the risk of offending some not on the list, I have to say my Viking tops the list; after that fall, natch, Daddy and, in no particular order, Bill Gates, Benjamin Franklin, Jim Henson, Walt Disney and, yep, Woody Allen.

Photo courtesy of Colin Swan

Whilst I do hope to jolly up at The Carlyle in Manhattan, where every Monday night Woody Allen & The Eddy Davis New Orleans Jazz Band delight local cats and gators with their sassy, swaying syncopations, thus far I have only seen Mr. Allen once, near New York City's Metropolitan Museum of Art.

It was June, so the pavement was hot like melty Velveeta and even though I'd chosen cork wedges for the day, the five-inch heels felt as though they were sticking to the asphalt with each step, like a happy, perky sinosauropteryx oblivious to its coming demise in the Upper East Side Tar Pits. The entire island sagged under a unique kind of humidity that only occurs in summer metropoli, capturing and cooking slowly everything within its concrete ovens. Hindering my movements somewhat, some side streets branching off Fifth Avenue were blocked, clearly a large-scale film shoot in play.

Spying the flimsy, paper, No Parking signs posted up and down a three- or four-block stretch of Fifth Avenue, I noted the standard film permit with all the usual information: dates of shooting, prod. coordinator contact info., NYPD info., permit number, etc. What I also spied immediately was Director: Woody Allen. Fortunately for my dignity, it was too hot to jump and squeal; so I merely nodded to myself and said, "Oh, very cool!" I also saw Title: Untitled. After one reads every biography ever published on the man, every New Yorker piece written by him and viewed most every second of documentary, interview and news report available, one knows he does not name his projects until finished; at least, he does not release the title to the press or public until then. He is very private, which is why even writing this wee salutation is totally anathema to whom he is. Oops. (Thinking back on the date, by the way, I believe they had to have been shooting Melinda and Melinda or Anything Else.)

Not the day I was there, sadly. Look! You can see Woody in the orange sweater, mid-frame. Courtesy of BettyX

After clomping down Fifth Avenue for a few blocks, doing my best to raise each step semi-elegantly out of the black oatmeal and hoping to nick a glimpse of the Gilligan-chapeau'd, bespectacled icon, I eventually ended up at The Jewish Museum: beautiful collections, amazing gift shop! Hours later, swamping back down Fifth Avenue, two Jewish charm bead bracelets nestled happily in my pretty, new gift bag, I happened upon a mellow area of the production: few people, one production truck and little movement overall.

They appeared to be shooting B-roll: second unit footage of the neighborhood, background extras, streets, capturing ambient noise, etc. I saw no Woody, no Christina Ricci (if it was Anything Else), no Chloë Sevigny (if it was Melinda and Melinda). Still, it was very cool and as I passed the closed set, open with just enough space to see a production assistant or two and, what I assumed was the second unit director of photography, a nice-looking, slim fellow with a light meter around his neck spied my museum gift bag and, giving me a thumbs up, a cool smile and a hearty chin nod, said, "Thanks for supporting the cause."

Always, man, always. Shalom, brother.

Hello Kitty Galore: A Supa Kawaii Holiday Shopping Guide

2011-11-30T20:44:00.000-08:00

Post-Holiday Update: Santa did indeed come through! Thank you, Napa Santa!! Je t'adore!!

Tarina Tarantino Pink Head: Hello Kitty as Matryoshka Doll

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, born January 27, 1756; William Shakespeare, spewed forth sometime in April of 1564; Woody Allen, hesitantly emerged December 1, 1935 and on November 1, 1974 ... Hello Kitty graced our lives.

Weighing exactly the same as three apples (which variety, I know not) and trademarked in 1976, Miss Kitty White was birthed in Tokyo from the creative loins of Sanrio and its founder Mr. Shintaro Tsuji: Chairman of Sanrio Company, Ltd., based in Tokyo and with distribution throughout Japan, S.E. Asia, the Americas and Europe. Delivering a sweet icon who would become commensurate with mirth and harmony, Mr. Tsuji would also offer all manner of kitsch that, whilst not only supa kawaii, would endeavour to bring together family, friends and shopping buddies the world over.

As Sanrio today explains, A small gift does bring a big smile. Sanrio provides a vehicle for the young and young-at-heart to express their feelings to friends and family-- each Sanrio product brings a message of friendship and happiness. Giving someone a cute Hello Kitty letter set doesn’t just say “let’s stay in touch”-- it gives them a means to do so.

Decades later, Hello Kitty would become not only the default global ambassador of kawaii ("cute" in Japanese, neither a misspelling nor a confusion of Kauai and/or Hawaii), but also one of Japan's Tourism Ambassadors to Hong Kong and China. Within those years she would bring supa kawaii joy to millions of Kitty junkies. Sanrio's tag line Small Gift, Big Smile ain't just whistlin' Dixie!

One of my first pieces ever: very vintage Kitty

Like the many iterations of Barbie, Madonna and yours truly, Hello Kitty has had more looks, moods and motifs than an Ethan Allen showroom. As of late, Kitty has been seen channeling 1970s hippy with Indian Boho Kitty, Wanted Dead or Alive ... for being so damned cute ... with Wild Western Bandit Kitty and, my personal fave, Bavarian garden statuary with Garden Gnome Kitty. Moi? I have been a devotee since I was a wee thing and my dear friend, now a respectable M.D. at U.C. Davis, her mum travelling to Hong Kong often on film business, would bring us back fresh Kitty booty.

A random smattering of Kitty items currently in my purse: journal for Christmas lists

You may very well have a kawaii addict on your holiday lists and not even know it. Hello Kitty is the perfect fix. Not sure? Signs of such an habituation include, but are not limited to, the following:

a raven-like penchant for the shiny, sparkly or glittery
auto-squeals, often too high-pitched for humans, in response to puppies, tiny boxes, peep-toe shoes and animals dressed as other animals or pretty humans (incl. Conan's Puppies Dressed as Cats) Go view it!! (Yet, come back, please.)
an inclination toward fuchsia, lavender or Barbie pink hair
colour preferences always circulate around pink, including mint green, powder blue, black and orange
any item slapped with French or Japanese writing
will find any excuse to send pretty correspondence via Snail Mail, especially Thank You cards, birthdays and lengthy, ~gasp~, handwritten letters

Translation? "I think I will go shopping in town." Bonne idee!

If you find you do have a dependent and want to assuage them with Kitty galore, find yourself any Sanrio shop: most large-scale malls will have one. Of course, mid-market retailers like KMart, WalMart, Target and Sears have learned the beauty of the Kitty Dollar. You can't swing a cat on this planet without hitting a Kitty.

Wait ... you're telling me your morning toast does not have Kitty's face burned into it? Weird.

A word to the wise: If you do venture to Sanrio shops specifically, for they do offer exclusive, often direct from Japan collections, be prepared to squeal inwardly when you see the prices. Kitty don't come cheap, especially with lines designed for such brands as Loungefly. You will, however, find more items you've never dreamed you needed. You will also experience cute meltdown; but, don't be distracted or weakened. Be strong and stick with Kitty. There are myriad other characters, all of whom are precious: Little Twin Stars, My Melody, Pochacco, Charmy Kitty, Tuxedo Sam, Spottie Dottie et al. If you have the funds, go bonkers! Moi-meme? I adore My Melody, Tuxedo Sam and Pochacco. Yet, like Duncan MacLeod the Highlander, There can be only one. Sometimes, one has to make a choice. Can't get to, or would rather not strong arm your way through, a mall this season? Plenty of Hello Kitty online for everyone. Need a little help?

I am always tempted by Pochacco, but always buy Kitty.

Voila, une liste des sites avec Hello Kitty et sa mignons amies ...

www.sanrio.com
www.hellokitty.com
www.girlzlyfe.com
www.japanla.com
www.tarinatarantino.com
www.dreamkitty.com
www.sephora.com
www.macys.com

Small Gift, Big Smile? No doubt! Supa kawaii desu ne! Merii Kurisumasu メリー・クリスマス !!!

Jen of the Rings: Tarina Tarantino and the White Rabbit

2011-11-13T15:50:00.000-08:00

I can think of at least one person whom will read this and declare with a cheerful chuckle, "Oh, good Lord! Shouldn't you be working on your next Savannah of Williamsburg book? Silly girl, you have way too much time on your hands." In fairness to this friend, she is unquestionably correct. Yet, I have been working, for weeks and weeks now, on rewrites to the ending of The Darlings of Orange County. (I erroneously thought it would be available by summer's end; I'm now hoping for a Christmas release.) Previous endings have been missing a certain je ne sais quoi; now, I've got it! To quote Johnny Depp's Mort Rainey in Secret Window, "No bad writing, Chico"; more apropos, "You know, the only thing that matters is the ending. It's the most important part of the story, is the ending. And this one is very good. This one's perfect." ... if I do say so myself. Corn-on-the-cob, anyone? Nom, nom, nom!

Anyhoo, this post was hatched from a simple pre-tweet. Before I sent my pithy 140 along their cheery, binary way it occurred to me I wished to share so much more with she whom I follow. Silly? Peut-etre. Billable PDR number? Almost certainly. Instead of short and sweet, for we all know I am incapable of the condensed word, I proffer a wee villanelle to my favourite piece of jewelry and its Barbie-pink bombilated designer, the lovely Tarina Tarantino.

There once was a girl from the O.C.

Who needed bling A.S.A.P.

When she saw the White Rabbit

She knew she had to nab it

And thanks glory be to Miss Tarina T.

The ring in question is a Tarina Tarantino White Rabbit Lucite Mod Ring. My viking bought it for me one birthday at Disneyland: specifically at DisneyVault28, which I have dubbed VaultDisney. As we rode the monorail from Downtown Disney into the park, he took the ring from its tiny black-and-gold striped bag and placed the ring on my finger; it was our unofficial remarrying ceremony. There was also in the monorail with us a dear couple, our Disney pals, and it is the "she" of "they" who will find this post oh-so-ridiculous. Huzzah to the ridiculous!

I sport the bauble with pretty much everything I wear. With the exception of my wedding ring, a delicate, antiqued rose, and a rhinestone Hello Kitty watch I received this birthday, it is my fave piece in my jewelry cabinet. I wear it to work out, I wear it at the pool and the beach (goes fab with my pink and turquoise bikinis), I wear it to write, I wear it for special events, I wore it to two funerals, I've worn it au pique-nique and it was the perfect conversation piece when I was doing book signings back East for my Savannah Series. (I get very nervous sitting en seul as an attraction in a Barnes & Noble or out front at the Colonial Williamsburg Visitors Center, like a Tod Browning exhibit. The ring always made for easy chatter.) When I begin the circus freak circuit again, I mean, book signing gigs for DOC, you can bet I'll be wearing it at each and every gig!

I do have to say that I am all of a sudden feeling sorry for myself, as there's an entire line of Tarina's jewelry, Pink Head (fuchsia-locked Hello Kitty) and Barbie, of which I own not a single piece, yet. Those who know of my Barbie collection and Hello Kitty obsession will understand my fretting; those who don't, I hope you find the joy of fictive, pretty characters someday. Santa, are you reading?

Covet, covet, covet: the Tarina Tarantino showcase at DisneyVault28

As I searched for a shot wherein I am donning my ring to share with Miss Tarantino (Yes, I probably could have found something more productive to do instead.) there surfaced a bevy of such shots, betraying my love. Most are candid, some are posed and many are of very poor quality. Furthermore, there are many wherein one can barely see the ring; be assured it is there and one can see its spirit glow like the fairy lights adorning Sleeping Beauty's Castle. Nevertheless, each photograph, each ensemble exposes my devotion, no matter how grainy. If nothing else, it is a sparkling endorsement for the durability of Miss Tarantino's pieces.

Full disclosure: the stone did fall out once. However, this was during a vigorous game of pool volleyball and any monkey could tell you chlorine, rum and Banana Boat are not good for jewelry. No worries, I spied the piece at the bottom of the pool and, like an otter, shot down and returned it to the surface where it has since been securely re-affixed and, like a bionic arm, is even more indestructible than ever. 1920s, bare-handed, Irish boxing, anyone?

Friends, Tarina, Countrymen ... I give you, The White Rabbit.

Thinking on whether or not my remark was funny ...

... whatever. I thought it was hilarious! (I think my halter dress is too small; good thing I turned it into a skirt.)

Wouldn't Mother be proud? All those Bullock's Little Lady classes gone kaput.

Could someone check this, please? I don't trust this guy behind me. (Note: the ring steadies my probably-rufeed hand)

The ring soothed my terror on Space Mountain; and look at that smug bastard behind me, bemused by said-terror.

The White Rabbit was there for me on a rather melancholy day: an final adieu to our Ichabod and Onyx.

Alice in Wonderland opening night! What better accessory than the ring?

Balance has dogged me since fifth grade; the heft of the ring keeps me equalized as I write :D

Dear Santa: please bring snow, a Kindle Fire and some TT Pink Head this Christmas!

What? I see nothing odd about this. He loves the ring!

The ring as accomplice: the famed midnight Laguna Beach Gazebo break-in

Au pique-nique with our dear Sterling Fry, just before leaving the VA

Again, balance is everything ... the ring keeps me from being too top-heavy.

With Colonial Williamsburg's Lord of the Books, Bob Hill ... the ring makes its final East Coast book signing appearance

Love and Anthropomorphism to all!

Post-Hallowe'en Post: Boy, Did Your Mothers Do Numbers on All of You!

2011-11-05T18:13:00.000-07:00

As I have written time and time again, I oft enjoy indulging in self-pity where my costuming monkey, on my proverbial back, is concerned. True, it's fun to be the Zooey Deschanel New Girl of most gatherings, minus the frequent outbursts of song. (I do not sing: well or ever. I would trust Timothy Geithner with my taxes before I would do Karaoke.) Hallowe'en, however, is its own beast. I don't mind being the overdressed dork in the Greta Garbo hat at Trader Joe's; I do mind being alone in my cosplay efforts on Hallowe'en night; it's a milder rerun of the high school horror wherein I'm the only one dressed up, except it's worse when six full-grown adults gaze upon you as though they've shared a tub of yoghurt well past its expiration date.

This year, my Viking declared it unfair for me to be deprived of such fantastic needs and whisked me away to a land where not only will I never be the only one dressed, I just may be the most under-dressed. I knew I was in the right place when three other Bacchants argued over whether or not the spell I was invoking, as my character Bellatrix Lestrange of Harry Potter notoriety, was being pronounced accurately. Fear not, it was resolved: Crucio! the Cruciatus Curse which brings extreme pain and torture. Duh.

For one such as myself, I'm thrilled if someone just knows who I am supposed to be, vaguely. Watching Invader Zim, a tavern wench and a Steampunk vixen debate not the spell itself but the final syllable thereof ... well, it's rare I feel so at home whilst wielding a wand and bodice dirk. (I only wish I could use my wand, and dirk for that matter, daily. The wand has an illuminated tip which lights on and off as one swishes it through the air, importuning spells, of course. The dirk is just v cool.)

Where is this land o' plenty o' dorks, you wonder? Northern California, of course. Wine country, in fact, and home to the only other costuming freaks I know: my Viking-in-law (brother-in-law, a.k.a. Captain Maurice Bloodstone or, on this night Ellis Harwood, Victorian undertaker) and his feisty, fabulous and famously frocked wife (sister-in-law, a.k.a. Sea Gypsy or, on this night Steampunk Lucy Westenra of Coppola's Dracula). These are Faire people, as in Renaissance Faire players. Whilst it has been some years since I've attended Faire, like a Montessori education or LSD (so I've read), once you get a little it sticks with you, embeds in your fat cells and you are forever "Faire people". Napa Hallowe'en 2K11, I was surrounded by my own kind and like a guest panda in an established habitat, they shared their bamboo and sake with me and we lolled and rolled around happily until the wee hours of the morning until the zookeepers sent me back to my home base.

As I gleefully snapped shots all night, especially of the two Viking brothers, I kept saying, "Boy, did your mother do a number on you two!", anxious to send her said-photos as we like to give her a hearty laugh, entreat a quizzical glance and a head scratch as often as possible. Then, days later as I went through the night's gallery of magic reflections, I thought, "Boy, did your mothers do numbers on all of you!", including mine.

Thank you, pandas and mothers!

The formidable Dr. Hunter S. Thompson was sadly not at our fete ...

...yet, I do believe that bastard would have been a fine addition.

Janis Joplin and Tommy Chong add a certain air - ahem - of festivity to any gathering.

"Come into my parlour," said the spider to her guests.

Thor and the Mad Celt: Law and Sworder

Every soiree needs a Phillip Seymour Hoffman/Woody Harrelson hybrid.

So tired, Dad ... no more Faire people, want to sleep now.

White & Nerdy quote of the night: "Damn it! I can't do my W&N gang sign with a wand in my hand."

Candy? Candy? Candy? Get in the van!

Le Dimanche Parfait ... an Ideal Sunday Morning

2011-10-16T12:25:00.000-07:00

I'm pretty certain this is what a perfect Sunday morning looks like.

Pumpkin Spice Latti and Bloody Marys: Captain Keno's, Encinitas


Moonlight Beach, Encinitas: photo courtesy of Breezy421

Bon Dimanche! Happy Sunday, folks!

You Are Gravely Invited to a Formidable Fête ... a Horrendous Hallowe'en!

2011-10-14T10:58:00.000-07:00

Jack and Sally are hosting a gracious Open House,

Though to this Mansion originally born, is actually a Mouse.

Lock, Shock and Barrel have taken decorative liberties within,

Whilst Zero alights in the delights of so many fresh bones.

A rush and push! Oh, where have they been?

Hallowe'en Town's Mayor endeavours to keep the peace.

Yet, alas, Oogie Boogie has evil designs on our cherished Sandy Claws.

(Good grief, they're both just so damned obese!)

It seems the presents shall remain wrapped,

perchance 'tis best that way.

For, Jack has finally found himself and that's really all there is to say.

Happy Hallowe'en Mes Amis!

All photos by Loren Javier @ Flickr

Where My Ghouls At? Disney Hallowe'en Party in the 666

2011-10-03T17:11:00.000-07:00

What? You're nuts! Everyone knows about Disneyland at Halloween.

No, they don't. Not everybody goes to Disneyland once a week.

Okay, still. Everybody knows about The Haunted Mansion at Halloween.

No, they don't. Maybe that should be your next blog post.

This is a heated argument Chez Nous. Albeit arguably relevant, yet always topical and vast, I find my considerable knowledge of useless pop culture, historical and media-centered trivia to be a universal condition. My Viking says it is absolutely not and that I am an anomaly, not at all a gauge of the standard human experience.

Aside: It's true. Similar to George Bush the Elder and the infamous barcode scanner incident or Mitt Romney considering himself "unemployed", I can seem a bit out of touch sometimes. (I suppose my Savannah of Williamsburg series speaks loudly to this, n'est-ce pas? Link for newbies, btw; I know the rest of you know it ad nauseum.) This state usually manifests itself in odd commentary, often compliments that just come out wrong, not unlike Parker Posey's twisted character in The House of Yes: "I didn't know they had paintings in Pennsylvania!" I once offended a waitress in Big Bear when, in the midst of simple, table-side conversation, she revealed she grew up on a farm. Being a lifelong fan of Little House on the Prairie I naturally replied, "You had cows? How fun! Do they make good pets?" Assuming I was being trite, she turned cold after that and never even answered me. I still await an answer. Do they?

Where was I? Ah. Disneyland at Halloween ...

What? It's four dollars a box. I want every kernel.

The Haunted Mansion - I write specifically of the Disneyland Resort in Anaheim, California - undergoes a metamorphosis that would make even Kafka proud: creepy crawlies, existential confusion, brooding philosophes and all. The entire park, in fact, gets a Halloween Time holiday makeover. Nyquil trip-worthy Mickey, Minnie, Donald and Goofy Jack O'Lanterns greet you at the main gate to escort you into a fall fantasy, even if it is still a tad warm here in sunny soCal to achieve a true autumnal glow: not counting that glow which comes from insisting on wearing a newsboy cap, silk breeches and woolen stripey stockings even when it's still near 90 degrees. (Best to go at night. Duh.) From Main Street's straw-adorned gaslamp posts to Space Mountain's surprisingly heart-stopping Ghost Galaxy (I screamed with such true terror and without the ability to ever catch my breath in between my banshee calls, I exited with a monster headache and a shredded sore throat. Total, gnarly fun!), everything is infused with an orange-and-gold, haystacks-and-scarecrows, SpiderCider-and-pumpkin muffin kind of elan. Even the popcorn boxes are anew with Gothic imagery.

Disney's Haunted Mansion, whilst divine and inspiring on its very worst day, brings new awe to the dark-humoured and sartorially gothic flutterbys whom tend to use the manor less as an amusement park ride and more as an interior design sketchbook. From proto-Hallowe'en through post-Christmas, the Mansion looks like the aftermath of a Tim Burton Army's coup d'etat. Using The Nightmare Before Christmas as its seasonal overlay, the neoclassical Victorian estate recounts the tale of pauvre Jack Skellington and his empirical quest to understand himself and his raison d'etre.

The chateau has been overtaken and rechristened Haunted Mansion Holiday here in Anna's House, Haunted Mansion Holiday Nightmare at Tokyo Disneyland for my Japanese pals. (Konnichiwa, Yoshiko, Akiko and Ai!) Jack and Sally, Zero (Jack's faithful dog), the mayor of Hallowe'en Town and his loyal citizens, evil Oogie Boogie and his miniature minions Lock, Shock and Barrel and, of course, Sandy Claws have made the palace their own. Nightmare devotees will not only spy favourite replications and vignettes from the holiday mainstay film, but search over and over, enduring sadistically long and serpentine lines to get inside, for details and surprises hidden nicely in plain sight for the more obsessive fans. (I found a creepy Christmas cadeau laid out and tagged For: Jennifer!)

The only thing better than a Goth is a Tokyo Disney Goth!

Apropos to those devilish lines, there are plenty of visual stimuli outside the Neoclassical Italianate dwelling to keep one's creative centers electrified as you shuffle forward at an imperceptible speed: impaled Jack O'Lanterns on an ivy-laden hillside, scores of flickering candles, skull-festooned, black-ribboned Christmas wreaths and a plethora of tombstones, cemetery statuary and goofy epitaph puns. (Crave an archivist's details about the original architectural impetus for the manse: the 1803 Shipley-Lydecker House in Baltimore? Voila ... Disneyland Nomenclature.)

Should you be fortunate enough to live near Disneyland or Tokyo Disneyland and/or even more fortunate to be an annual passholder, get thee to The Haunted Mansion forthwith. Plan on a long line, buy some popcorn to kill time and, if you're not a passholder, expect a terrifying ticket price into the park. (Of course, you can always put that admission toward said-pass and imbue yourself with the heady incense that is Disney all year long. They'll apply the ticket to the pass of your choice and for just a minor monthly stipend, Disney will own your ass forev ... I mean, offer you endless entertainment for years to come, plus parking.)

Hurry back and don't forget to bring your, death certificate.

Anaheim Haunted Mansion/Ghost Mickey/MainGate photos courtesy of fellow Disney dork Loren Javier

Tokyo Disneyland photos courtesy of Hamachi! (Haunted Masnion) and suntoad (Goths), both of /flickr

Cecil B. DeMille, M.F.C.C. or, Why Change Your Wife?

2011-09-25T14:46:00.000-07:00

Why Change Your Wife? (1920) is a matrimony “comedy” by Cecil B. DeMille. There are two possible responses to a movie like Why Change Your Wife?: mockery and anger. I’ve never been much of a one for laughing at bad movies. - Helen Geib, Commentary Track

So above goes the opinion of one gal. So here goes the beauty of the American condition: free to agree to disagree. I am thankful, however, that Ms. Geib chose the phrasing of possible responses, for many a critic will oft claim his view as gospel. Thank you, Helen, for leaving open this small crack in the patio door. Like a stray cat, or the Obama family, I shall take this wee opportunity, dash inside and have my way with the furniture until I am shooed from the premises.

Why Change your Wife? is a viable comedy: from Chaplinesque pratfalls to the classical, stage requirements of the theater. Why Change Your Wife? (1921 Famous Players-Lasky Corporation/Paramount Pictures Distribution), directed by Cecil B. DeMille and written by (in alphabetical order) Sada Cowan, William DeMille and Olga Printzlau, offers a glitzy, stocking-and-gartered, Old Hollywood-styled, silent-era film of the alpha relationship. Like a banshee from the turreted rooftops, this sex farce shrieks the foibles of men and women, husbands and wives, whilst whispering from those same turrets those of mother and child. Mother and son, to be more accurate; for, that is what lies at the foundation of this sociological flicker. Shakespearean in its storyline, Freudian in its subtext, this follow-up to DeMille's 1919 Don't Change Your Husband posits, and eventually answers, an common, albeit underlying and queasy quandary ... Do men want to marry their mothers? Though most prefer to build a Home Depot over all that and let it remain buried, there are as many responses to said-quandary as there are men, and mothers.

Robert and Beth Gordon (Thomas Meighan and Gloria Swanson) are married. Period. He heads to work, she stays home. He tries to shave each morning, she hogs the mirror. He likes foxtrots, she prefers classical. He loves his dog, she sees walking disease. He likes to dance, she likes to read. He buys her lingerie, she finds it disgusting.

In a moment of concession, Beth tries on the new negligee, just hours earlier modeled in-store by a young nymph named Sally. Beth, unsure of how to rock such gear and Robert, clueless as to how to help her rock it, tries his best. Do you know, somehow in the shop, it looked - thinner. Brilliant, Bob. Brilliant. Still a sport, she tries to get in the mood with the same face and enthusiasm one gives while cleaning hair from a shower drain. Quelle surprise, she just can't do it. You expect me to share your Oriental ideas? Do you want your wife to lure you like a - a - Oh, why didn't you marry a Turk?

Robert should have known better. All of her puritanical tendencies are clearly evident; she wears thick glasses and her hair rolled up. Duh. Beth finds most every habit of Robert's vile: smoking, eating, drinking, dancing, lusting. At every turn she not only lets him know of her disapproval, but she takes the opportunity to educate him and change his boyish charms, certainly the dangerous charms which lured her to him originally. Robert, why will you play that awful, physical music? Try to cultivate your taste, dear! Enter sexy, jazzy Sally.

Take a hint, Beth. Ditch the Red Cross shoes.

He likes Sally, Sally likes lingerie and knows exactly how to rock it. Sally likes smoking, jazz, dancing, parties, stockings, feathers, rhinestones, shoes with kitten heels and best of all booze! The outlook is clear and a million, as pilots say. Bob skeezes about with Sally, Beth smells Sally's lurid Persian Nights perfume on Bob one night, Beth files for divorce. Bob is okay with that and quickly weds Sally. Even the dog is happy, for a bit.

The day the divorce is final, Beth's Aunt Kate takes her shopping. Surely a new frock will heal her pain. In a scene right out of Cougartown and with mere curtains for dressing room partitions, the fun-loving gals next door overhear Beth's woes, and she their analysis of said-woes. Feeling pity for her, they also conclude she may have brought it on herself: judging she just wouldn't play with her husband and clearly dresses like an aunt, rather than a wife. A sting makes a mark and she realizes perhaps she has become a bit Mumsy and let herself go. Nothing like shaking loose the hair, losing the glasses and shimmying into some embroidered stockings and a backless, sleeveless, transparent and indecent number to let the world know how Beth got her groove back.

Thank goodness for coincidence, for soon Robert gets a gander of Beth and her smashing, previously unseen gams at a swanky resort. (Beth bought the very bathing suit the dressing room gal had tried on that fateful day, recalling the sage, overheard directive of the shop clerk: If a girl can wear a bathing suit like this - it's her duty to do so!) Pity Sally doesn't look so good this day. As Beth lounges poolside in her scandalous suit and is wooed by a dozen dapper dandelions, Sally has become a drag and a plain old nag. Taken to correcting Bob's posture and manners in public, she doesn't even love his dog anymore. She's hogging the mirror now and, funny enough, the new Mrs. Gordon appears shorter, dumpier and duller than the shiny new ex-Mrs. G. Naturally, Robert notices all of this. The liberated ex and the man-toddler Robert, tired of his new toy, fall in love all over again.

"I'll take it, and six more just like it."

Sally bristles briefly about the resort breakup. Happily for her though, she spies a yummy new target and cries the battle charge that would do a Real Housewife proud: Remember the Alimony! Beth, for her part, now loves Bob's dog, digs jazz, shows off her junk, pours out the gin, presumably puts out and, like a good girl, probably hates books. She snaps in two her favourite, classical record and to the delight of all, she finally dons that Oriental negligee Robert bought her, pre-divorce, and they merrily direct the maid and valet to not only bring Beth's bed in from the other room, but, hold on to your bippies Rob and Laura Petrie, push those matrimonial beds together.

You may ask, where is the contemporary link here? How is this adaptable and humorous to vous? It's funny alright and it's relative. Just as Shakespeare's sex comedies are apropos today, so go the marriage farces of the silent era and the career girl-loves-slacker dude, Judd Apatow films of today. Plain old human nature; only the negligees and the music have changed. There's a lesson for everyone involved; there's also a realization for many. Some men need a mom for a wife and some men don't. Simple. If your goal is to dust them off and dress them up in a sailor outfit, they'll let you know pretty quickly if that's okay. If they already have a mom and want a wife, they'll let you know that, too. Some men need that structure and guidance; they'd be a train wreck without it. Others direct themselves nicely and need a partner to co-pilot with them. Of course, some want a co-pilot who'll simultaneously spoon-feed and navigate while they fly. Those are probably trickiest for the wife. The others are pretty cut-and-dry. I think the Mr. Gordons of the world may need the rare, gin-swilling mom in a sleeveless, backless, transparent, indecent number.

In the end, conversationally as well as literally in the film's final intertitle, women, for it does appear men of the '20s had little to learn, are proffered advice that might be heeded by both husbands and wives. My proffering? Men, make your intentions clear; women, don't change your husband. Live by it, laugh at it or rail against it, it suits all well on some level.

And now you know what every husband knows: that a man would rather have his wife for his sweetheart than any other woman: but Ladies: if you would be your husband's sweetheart, you simply must learn when to forget that you're his wife.
-Why Change Your Wife?

****************************************************************

Wondering who the heck Cecil B. DeMille is? Did you read this and think, "I wasn't born in 1920" and therefore couldn't possibly know about people whom lived when everybody walked really fast in newsreels? (Such a pet peeve of mine, btw. You really can't know about anything or anyone whom existed before your birth year? I know about Mozart, John Dillinger and Edward the Confessor, but ... ) Anyhoo, if you're still bored at work, allow me to introduce you ...

Cecil B. DeMille, for those of you familiar enough with the name, yet unsure as to whether or not he's that dude in your algebraic topology class who always wears the Andy Capp hat and who constantly smells like weed, or if you think you've seen the name on the end credits of a Chuck episode, allow me to school you real quick.

Briefly, Mr. DeMille (professional spelling, as opposed to de Mille, which he used in his personal life), the son of a Columbia University professor and a girls' school headmistress, made seamless and timely transitions from theater and vaudeville in New York to the sunny climes and silent moving pictures of Hollywood and well into the era of the talkies, Technicolor and television.

Earning a Best Picture Oscar in 1953 for The Greatest Show on Earth would be an achievement of note; yet, like Thomas Jefferson, who chose to omit "U.S. President" from his epitaph, Cecil Blount DeMille had more than enough to adorn his symbolic epitaph. Founding partner of Paramount Pictures, founder of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, member of the first Board of Directors for Bank of Italy (later to become Bank of America) and founder of Mercury Aviation, the first commercial airline to offer passenger service on a regular schedule, were all virtually accomplished before Yours Truly changed out of her jim-jams this morning.

Above all, DeMille was of that great hybrid: filmmakers, storytellers, auteurs, visionaries and businessmen. Like Shakespeare, Spielberg, Lucas, Edison (Thomas Edison, being one of the industry's first filmmakers: late-19thC.), Allen and Disney, DeMille knew how to tell a story, show a story, produce a story, monetize a story. In the glorious, if not always ethical, early days of Hollywood and its studio system, all but six of his seventy films turned a profit. Known for Biblical, historical and grand-scale productions, he cemented mainstays like Cleopatra, The Ten Commandments, Samson and Delilah, Reap the Wild Wind and The Warrens of Virginia firmly into the groundwork of west coast filmmaking. Unafraid of success and blissfully unashamed of his achievements (a characteristic curiously and frighteningly frowned-upon in this New World Order of 2011), DeMille, like so many a successful titan of any industry, understood the need to evolve and pioneer ahead into frontier territory. Imagine what he might have done in the era of Bill Gates, Google and Netflix.

75 Years On, Muppet DNA Still Rocks : Happy Birthday, Jim

2011-09-24T12:32:00.000-07:00

"All the French I know I learned from my perfume bottles." -Miss Piggy

Rock on, dear Jim!

All I know about being a girl I learned from Miss Piggy. Sure, mix in some stuff I learned from Mom, Scarlett O'Hara, Jane Austen, Wonder Woman, Veronica and Sally Ride. Yet, Piggy passed on to me tenacious lessons of immovable, stalking-love, perfecting the hair-flip, sprinkling one's conversations with French and always being ready for the camera. She also imbued the beauty of a well-timed karate chop. Hiiiiiya!

Though, it was not just Miss Piggy who helped me become the half-woman/half-TV character I am today; every loyal subject of Jim Henson and Muppetdom guided me through infancy, childhood and into a very cheerful and dorky adolescence, wherein my Muppet DNA ran so fiercely and powerfully through my cells that I was immune to the fear, peer pressure and derision experienced by mere, common teenagers. No fear on Sesame Street or The Muppet Show, no fear in "real life". Right?) The Henson clan held my felt hand and steered me straight on course for a ridiculously happy, borderline reality-impaired, adulthood.

~insert Kermit's The Muppet Show opening cheer, skinny green arms akimbo~

Beaker and Dr. Bunsen Honeydew, clearly the brains behind the worldwide DNA infusion (Can you see it? A double-helix of Muppet DNA, all made of felt and spinning, laughing, dancing and dipping glamorously to ballroom music? Yeah, I can see it.), exposed the explosive dangers of the lab to me and, accordingly, I kept away from a hard science major in college. Ditto for the Swedish Chef; I fear the kitchen, and knives, to this day: not to mention human hands. Gonzo urged me to love even poultry; I have been a vegetarian for too many years to count now. Gonzo also enlightened the world that labels are unnecessary. Gonzo was, and still is, a creature of unknown lineage and he rocked it. Lew Zealand illustrated that fish don't need water, just hugs and pets. Beauregard was sweet and chipper, though just a janitor, and with his plaid flannel shirt was Grunge way before Kurt Cobain was. Scooter knew how to focus on a task and how to manage a production with nothing more than a clipboard and a headset, all while sporting that dynamite lime-green satin jacket. Fozzie the Bear. Well, what can one say about Fozzie? Fozzie proved there is no line between comedy and irritation. If a joke doesn't work, extrapolate another from that failed one and keep on trucking until the giant hook comes for you. (Damn, that thing is hard to dodge.)

Every Muppet was born with a quality worthy of academic study. There isn't a bad apple in the barrel and Jim Henson knew that. Even Oscar the Grouch isn't bad; he's just crafted that way. Every creature is worthy, worthier sometimes, than humans of anthropomorphism. Rats love margaritas and moonlight buffets on Caribbean cruises just like everyone else. Cockroaches, shrimp, peas and cauliflower are people, too, and deserve respect. This is where the deepest and best lessons lie. Like any superhero, there is an everymanimal quality with which all mortals can identify. Like Charlie Brown, Spongebob, Bobby Hill, Winnie-the-Pooh or Anderson Cooper, there is a positive, optimistic charm that flows endlessly and makes us say, "Hey, man. No worries. It's all good." Pigs in Space and Veterinary Hospital exhibited humor and gravity, or lack thereof in the former, can go hand-in-hand. They also taught me to listen to bold, narrative voices coming from the skylights. (Was there ever a hotter pig than Link, btw?)

Clearly, I have a thing for the Viking type ... was Link, well, the link?

If Piggy, and Mom, taught me a girl can never have too much jewelry and a karate chop is okay if you've been offended, and Gonzo showed me love knows no species and chickens deserve pearls and not to be eaten, and Fozzie proved spirit, grit and determination can get you through even the toughest of crowds, Kermit was the real Sensei. What Kermit endowed in me cannot be spoken, written or shared. Like Yoda, Linus, Mulder, Serious Jerry or Daddy, Kermit imparted wisdom that just, is. Honor, truth, patience, kindness, tenacity and love.

Daddy loves to tell of the day Sesame Street first aired. I was two years old and he would become a child psychologist years later. He plopped me down in front of the television and watched with me as we learned a new letter and a new number with the help of a funny, furry, puppet-type thing that morning. He thought it was the greatest thing since pants. From that day onward, 123 Sesame St. was a daily destination and, like a good American child, I soon craved any and all merchandise associated with anything Jim Henson touched. I still have my Grover hand-Muppet and because of Super Grover, I would never be so afraid of the monster at the end of this book, that I would not continue to the end of the book. Wocka, wocka, wocka!

Want proof they still rock? OK Go redoes the Muppet Show Theme Song ... awesome.

Confucius say, "Magnolia, girl least chaste is girl most chased."

2011-09-23T11:02:00.000-07:00

Coming soon, I swear, is the publication of my latest novel: the lurid, lascivious and most unchaste The Darlings of Orange County. Jogging breathlessly and bralessly (not really, just symbolically) alongside will be my new website: www.jennypop.net, where I shall endeavour to be bombarded and chased with terrifying rapidity and fervor by legions of new and corn-fed, spoon-fed, bromidic and prosaic readers. Whilst The Darlings and JennyPop.Net are not quite ready to launch, I certainly am!

Chomping at the bit to get this damn book and website off the launch pad and hurtling into the Heliosphere someday, I am left with the proverbial twiddling of the thumbs. Yes, I have started working on Savannah of Williamsburg: Book IV. Still, I wanted to pepper my writing day with more frivolous, non-historical, non-academic scribblings and bibblings. Ergo, I said to myself, "Magnolia," for that is what I call myself sometimes, "why not try something totally different, but incorporate that which you love: media?" I came up with TV and film reviews. As all the other vowels said, "Y not?". Bitte, indulge me my freshman effort.

Bob's Burgers is the newest animation offering from 20th Century Fox and as rare and unique in the broadcast biosphere as a vegetarian in an Outback Steakhouse. Sure, there may be a few others lurking about, dealing with bland fettucine alfredo and the standard veggie platter everyone else has on the menu, but you have to stand up in your booth and look hard.

Having a serious animation addiction, I was thrust into a tailspin when King of the Hill was cancelled a few years ago after thirteen seasons (the final four episodes of Season 13 left unaired by Fox and left to the imagination like Gilbert Stuart's unfinished portrait of George Washington). Happily, this network decision clearly threw open the window into which KotH producer Jim Dauterive shimmied back in and, with creator Loren Bouchard, gave us Bob's Burgers.

Bob is a man on a meat mission: burgers are his business and people suck. Life is good behind the grill; it's exasperating with customers. If Woody Allen and Spongebob Squarepants were caught in a tear within the Time-space Continuum, Bob is what would happen. Mustachioed and optimistic enough, Bob will survive the day as long as nobody dies on his property and as long as he can make it through the Labor Day boardwalk blowout without having a heart attack. If it all gets too heavy, the neighboring businesses, It's Your Funeral Home and Crematorium and the Meth, I Can Methadone Clinic, may be able to help.

His beloved wife Linda loves burgers enthusiastically because Bob loves burgers ... for lack of much else. Part-Rhoda, part-Edith Bunker and part-Lois Griffin she has an immovable coiffure and a standing apology for most folks with whom her man interacts; yet, she also has his hirsute back when need be. Their three kids do their best to help make Bob's life just a little more difficult each day. Spanning the emotional tape measure from maudlin and apathetic to manic, dramatic and possibly sociopathic, the Belcher children, Gene, Tina and Louise (Tina Louise? Excellent nameplay!) provide more of a travelling morality play than restaurant help as Bob and Linda try to bring in business, keep in business and keep at bay the never-ending stream of nemeses: Jimmy Pesto, successful pizzeria owner and Italian-American goombah across the street; vindictive health inspectors; sexy, active, lethal Brasilians; Tina's onslaught of teen misanthropy worthy of Victorian-age graveyard poets, but dressed down in dingy boardwalk tees and Coke bottle-bottom glasses. Her tendency to hide under the presumably-Naugahyde booths lends immense cartoon pathos.

Whatever the conflict, Bob is ready with his spatula, his apron and his belief in his burgers. Gene brings in the customers with a megaphone and a foam burger suit, believing the fine line between comedy and irritation is a myth. Louise, the darling psychopath eternally chapeau'd in hot-pink bunny ears, is Bob's youngest daughter and his biggest cheerleader. Whether the sexy Brasilian needs gutting or the grease traps need cleaning, Louise is up for it ... although she'd much rather poke dead seals with a stick and her brother Gene ... poke the seals with Gene's company ... not poke the seals with a stick and/or with Gene.

Jim Dauterive, former exec. producer, super. producer and so many other types of producer on King of the Hill , now heads the Above-the-Line ranks of Bob's Burgers along with the show's creator and fellow E.P./writer Loren Bouchard of Dr. Katz, Professional Therapist and The Ricky Gervais Show: both of these shows just smart and cerebral enough to knit the brows of the average American viewer.

Apropos, as I peruse Fox's 2011 Animation Domination schedule, I see BB in the line up, but sadly wearing last season's togs. I fear Bob's Burgers may go the way of the similarly brilliant The Office (original, BBC-production), Pulling, Arrested Development and ferrets: an average lifespan of about two seasons ... plus a sudden, two-hour finale special.

Because this stuff is very important (especially if you're listed):
PRODUCTION COMPANY
20th Century Fox Television
CREATOR
Loren Bouchard
EXECUTIVE PRODUCERS/WRITERS
Loren Bouchard
Jim Dauterive
DIRECTOR
Anthony Chun
VOICE CAST
H. Jon Benjamin as Bob Belcher
John Roberts as Linda Belcher
Kristen Schaal as Louise Belcher
Eugene Mirman as Gene Belcher
Dan Mintz as Tina Belcher

Pumpkin Spice Latte, I've Got ... Hallowe'en Costume, Not So Much

2011-09-13T12:42:00.000-07:00

Screams like a banshee, "Pumpkin Spice Latte and Pilgrim Shoes!"

Even the walruses have gone. Summer here in ~sigh~ perennially sunny San Diego is a fait accompli and so commences the greatest, worthiest, am besten time of year: autumn!! Automne, Herbst, Fall, Høst, Autunno ... whatever you may call it, call it verily the loveliest of seasons: time for Pumpkin Spice Latti, tall boots, wool fedoras, fingerless gloves, empty beaches, ghostly harbors, Poe, Agatha Christie, Midsomer Murders, and so much of that which demands a fireplace-warmed and foggy eve in Bar Harbor, Salem, Seattle or Monterey. 'Tis also the time for prepping one's Hallowe'en costume!

Yes, many of you know well, I have a costuming addiction. From tossing on togs for a bike ride (Last week, I pretended I was in Amsterdam, so I donned my plaid, Banana Republic newsboy cap, Heidi skirt and Juicy Couture, cotton halter top to peddle to a fave coffeehouse. Serious cyclists always strike me as so tense and uncomfortable as they whizz past; I much prefer cruisin' in my Miss Marple shoes and bobby sox.) to deciding what to wear to a fantasy football party (Yes, I went to a footballesque gathering ... sort of proto-autumnal. Plus, there were Bloody Marys.) to selecting just the right vestments for an airport pick-up (depends on the airport), I just plain ol' enjoy the art of the ensemble. Naturally, this culminates each year with the Hallowe'en selection ... this year, I'm flat busted.

Silly Mommy! Wabbits don't need shoes!

Maybe it's because I've been overdoing the holiday for x-number of years; I've been everything. (Hey, that would be a cool, seasonal, Weird Al-style version of Johnny Cash's I've Been Everywhere.) Short of making a bulleted list, which I do love to make, I was all the generics, as a child: black cat, bunny rabbit, witch, pumpkin (as an infant) etc. Later on, costumes ranged from saloon girls to Civil War nurses, 17thC. cavaliers to pirates, Raggedy Ann to Medieval princesses and varied historical and/or Disney figures. As of late, I've tended toward the ladies of Tim Burton: Mrs. Lovett, Mirana the White Queen and such. Now, I'm tapped out, mostly.

People pie, anyone? It's Scottish poet!

I toyed with Sally from Tim Burton's The Nightmare Before Christmas; although, I don't know about dying my hair that red for one night, and I find red wigs to always look like bad yarn. Wednesday Addams is a natural, but almost too much so. Friends would say, "Why no costume this year?" Plus, all my dolls are in storage (I have a sizable collection, mostly Barbies.) and I need one of my baroque dolls so I can pop off her head. You know, as in Wednesday's Marie Antoinette doll?

I even pondered Princess Leia in the Gold Bikini: too slutty. Sexy, I can do. Slutty? It's just so much flesh in lieu of style. Tacky. (Plus, I can't see that costume anymore without picturing Ross Geller's mom. "Okay, here we go. I'm Jabba's prisoner ... Come on, sweetie. You're like, freaking me out here.") Apropos, I do like the idea of Han Solo (in theory as well as cosplay); I think I can pull it together, minus the holster and Mauser blaster. Of course, if one is going to go SW, one has a moral responsibility. Also, one does not want to fuck with the Rebel Legion and their costuming standards. Really. I can't just sew some red ribbons down my trousers; they have to be Corellian bloodstripes: 1" x 1/4" with 1/8" in between stripes. My holster, blaster and belt have to be correct and I'd better find the proper droid caller to affix or I am in deep bantha poodoo.

Not crazy, I swear ... Daddy had me tested.

I've also considered Jim Morrison; I have the curls, the Concho belt, the chambray shirt and the sunglasses, but no leather pants. I think some years, Napoleon; I have the breeches, boots and could fashion a jacket, but no hat. Additionally, I've always loved the French gendarme uniform; yet, I'd have to mug a cocktail waitress at Paris in Vegas for the gear. I don't know what to do.

"Hey, Jen. Why didn't you dress up this year?"

Any ideas?

Update: Thank you for those ideas presented via Comments; I considered them sincerely, even Groucho! However, I have finally decided upon the perfect persona ... you shall have to wait until my Hallowe'en night post to see, however. Spooky? Certainly. Historic? In a literary sense, yes. Fitting pour Moi? Absoluement!
Follow @JennyPopNet

That's My Bush!

2011-08-31T13:09:00.000-07:00

You're no bunny, 'til some bunny loves you, George!

Because I love geology, politics and humour ... and it's apropos to my most recent post:

What was the Obama Administration's explanation for the Mineral, VA earthquake?

Naturally, it was Bush's Fault.

My Fellow Californians, Don't Be Haters ... What With 'Storm Watch' and All

2011-08-25T19:12:00.000-07:00

According to Twitter, a leading trend on Tuesday, August 23rd, 2K11 was not just the 5.8 Mineral, VA earthquake, but also, Californians mocking East Coasters for their reactions to said-event. Not cool, people. Having had the privilege of living on both coasts, I declare each has its own geographical demons and, lest you have experienced either or, it is an unfair jab to poke thy fellow primate.

Pentagon evacuation: Official U.S. Navy Imagery

Born in Miami, Florida and residing there for three years before moving to California, earliest memories include taking refuge in a downstairs hallway with Mum and Max, the childhood beagle, with masking tape-Xs marking the plate-glass windows and waiting out massive and lengthy storms. (Or, was Mum calling for Agent Mulder's secret contact?) Where was Daddy? As an Air Force pilot, he was tasked with helping to fly all aircraft out of Florida and onto Michigan bases. Just like Superman!! In fact, as an ironic note, the very hospital from which I was sprouted forth into this world, Homestead Air Force Base, was blown off the map by Hurricane Andrew in 1992 ... same month as my birth, too. (Hey, without the hospital, how do I know I exist? Damn. Can't be sure.)

Many, many years later, my Viking and I would adventure along the mid-Atlantic for a lengthy six years and were faced with at least two major hurricanes and countless terrifying storms. There is an excitement in preparation and anticipation that cannot be described; if you know of this sentiment, you know of it. I cannot explain it to the hurricane virgins. To wit ... the earthquake virgins.

Just as the lifelong Hollywood resident or San Diego native is devoid of empathy where, say, the oncoming fear and adrenalin of Hurricane Irene is concerned, a Cape May or Georgetown lifer has zero clue about the sensorial nature which accompanies an earthquake. If you've never felt one, it must be beyond-unsettling and quizzical. What the hell?! The earth is moving? My building is swishing about like a blade of grass? Fuck. Remember, East Coast architecture is not built to the same earthquake standards that West Coast edifices are. Stanford and William & Mary may both be gorgeous institutions, but I choose not to stand around The Wren Building during the next 6.0. My fave Starbucks, the world over? King Street, Alexandria, Virginia. Even I cannot describe the warmth of soul that envelops one whilst sipping a creamy Pumpkin Spice Latte and flipping through a Washington Post inside a 17thC. stone building on the Potomac. I also cannot describe how it must feel to shake and rumble within said-structure during a quake.

Additionally, Wanderlust doesn't strike man as often one might think. Most people are like Medieval peasants: happy to reside within about five miles of where they were born until they become deceased there. Lead them out out of town too far and leave them and, Crap. Now I don't remember where I live anymore. Virginians are the worst; they don't go anywhere, trust me. Last week's quake probably puzzled them like the monolith puzzled the apes in 2001: A Space Odyssey.

Moi, growing up in the Golden State, I'm like those animals that fled into the hills when the tsunami hit Thailand. I sense the quakes coming, even before our pup, and alert my husband before they strike. They scare me to death; alas, I am used to them and the frequency and timing of aftershocks make for great drinking games. Like seeing B-list celebrities at the NoHo Starbucks on Lankershim, or watching one's sister-in-law get fatter and meaner every Christmas, the de rigueur becomes just that and I suppose watching someone else react to what you know so well is amusing: earthquakes and hurricanes included. (An aside: depending on the type of quake [strike-slip, thrust, normal ... yes, I was so fascinated with the concept of the Earth I was a geology major for a bit], one can hear it rolling down the street and straight toward one's house. Creepy. Really.)

I know well both ends of this mocking game. Before I got out of California and experienced another way of life, I used to make fun of friends' and relatives' reactions to quakes: notably late-night phone calls asking if we were okay. Sweet, really. Necessary? Not really, as often the event in question was a hundred miles away and, unlike the East Coast bedrock which disallows, our tremors are born deeper and remain more localized. In turn, I also received a lot of jabbing amidst the anxiety that surrounded even the smallest of storms back east. In California, any amount of rain is cause for alarm. (For Moi, 'tis a cause for joy; I love rain!)

For those not in soCal, we have a local news phenomenon called "Storm Watch" and it's a running joke. The slightest bit of precipitation gets local news all in a tizzy and someone makes bitchen graphics, adds an ominous sound effect and sends a score of cheesy field reporters across the Southland to cover rushing gutters, puddled parking lots and the fools with their tiny dogs whom deign to shop Fashion Island (an outdoor mall) or walk the beaches in disastrous, tempestuous, 50-degree weather, 15-mile-an-hour winds and two inches of rain. Want a giggle? Watch the above-linked clip before or after watching some real storm coverage. Say, Hurricane Irene? You found two glass bottles, dude? Say it ain't so ... a Starbucks cup and a Spongebob toy?! Wow.

People in glass houses, be cool ... and buy a lot of masking tape.

Summer is Over: Please Clean up Your Leavings, Folks

2011-08-17T14:27:00.000-07:00

The bathing beauties, nuclear families and slim, chic Europeans on holiday have all but disappeared and eschewed our warm sand, Tequila Sunrises, Mojitos and bragging sunsets for their de rigueur lives in academia, finance, IT, law, science, medicine, homemaking, labour, maybe even agribusiness. Farmers do go to the beach, right? What is left now on our beach is an odd and messy amalgam of summer residue.

The most notable are the walruses; at least that's what I call them and their numbers climb as summer and its crowds fizzle. (I know, it's not a kind term; yet, I name no one in particular, post no pictures with black bars over the eyes and, frankly, the term falls in queue with Muffin Top lexicon. The perpetrators know what's going on and they don't seem at all bothered by it. To the contrary, they seem proud on some strange level. Plus, I believe "walrus" is kinder than "elephant seal", because that is really what comes to mind when I see these women.)

These women are large, apparently not body-conscious in the least and love the water. Sometimes they wear really teensy bikinis (eek!), sometimes matronly one-pieces with the ruffled skirts (very appropriate, I think) and, on occasion, I see one in full stretch pants, Keds and a tank top. Regardless of their vestments, their characteristics are surprisingly similar.

L'Odalisque Brune by François Boucher

Like the rest of us, they like to lie on the beach. (Moi? I prefer lounging on a museum banquette, after-hours and motionless so as not to trip any laser beams or alarms. Yet, I do crave the briny smell of the sea and the crash of the waves at night as I drift to sleep. If I must venture, bikini-clad a la plage midday, I bring my tuneage and read a little PCWorld or Rolling Stone ... umbrella and 50spf are a must.) However, rather than take their spot on the soft and fluffy beach like the bipedal masses, the walruses like the water's edge, right where the waves settle and seep into terra firma. There they are lightly bathed at regular intervals by King Triton as they lie on their sides and revel in the spray and splash, occasionally rolling backwards, like a Turkish odalisque, to yell and inquire at their brood farther up the sand or check in with friends to see what they're missing whilst they loll and wallow happily in the surf. I'm happy for the walruses. They look cool, refreshed and utterly content. I wish I had the confidence to roll back and forth like a marble rolling pin on display in the breakers.

Other creatures coming out of hiding as summer wanes, include the retirees (love to vacation when children are relegated back to their cages ... in Williamsburg, we called them the Oldies-but-Goodies because they were old and cranky, but spent a lot of money, especially on historical-fiction novels with squirrels); the ultra pale and the redheads (like Moi, thrilled to be able to go outdoors without slathering an entire bottle of sunscreen); British families (Why? I have no idea. There just traditionally seems to be a lot of Brits with wee children on the beaches at summer's end); and, oddly, a wide assortment of single women: walruses not included, as they are always part of a pod. (Ironically, the collective noun for a group of walruses is also called ... an ugly. True story. Source: An Exaltation of Larks by James Lipton)

Many of the said-single ladies are older, appear to be well-to-do and have bright smiles on their pale, jovial, Grandmama-faces as they gleefully stroll through the breakers, clearly thrilled about having wet feet, their Coldwater Creek clam diggers rolled up just like the catalogue shows, their Chico's sun hats and sunflower tunics fluttering in the late-August breezes and their tiny, Coach wristlets full of lipstick and Walkin' Around Money. Maybe widows with new funds to travel? Maybe Moms or Grandmamas treating themselves after a summer of entertaining and hosting relatives, grandkids and other summer pests? Whatever their situation, they always look damned happy and say Hello! to everyone they pass as if they were at a county fair.

Finally, with the end of summer comes the vacating of rental properties. I don't mind the tourists; in fact, I enjoy them, or at least the concept of them. (They can be petulant and obnoxious litterbugs and, around here, love to light fireworks for some reason night after night, which freaks out our pup completely.) I do recall though, a life-lesson when I was young and in San Francisco with my parents. It was summer and Mom was a marine biology major at Cal State SF; we were enjoying a bit of lunch at Fisherman's Wharf No.9 before Daddy and I dropped her off at class. A vacationing family from somewhere Southern was eating near us and I rolled my eyes and said, "I hate tourists." To which Mom replied succinctly, "If you're never a tourist, it means you've never been anywhere." Good point, Mom. Funny, too, because we traveled all the time. I was often a tourist; I supposed I could never have been a tourist, no matter where I went. (What a little wanker I must have been.)

For the most part, with a brief interruption when Daddy moved his practice inland a bit, I have lived in towns where folks take vacations: Miami, Newport Beach (Balboa Island and Corona del Mar), San Clemente, Laguna Beach, Monarch Beach (Dana Point), Colonial Williamsburg and San Diego. I like the yearly, fresh influx of visitors; I like to see the shiny, peppy faces of people on holiday with no worries and no concerns ... except the dads. Poor dads. They always look worried and concerned and you can see the calculator cranking painfully in their heads every moment of the day.

In Williamsburg, Christmas as well as summer, there was nothing like seeing license plates from up and down the East Coast filling up the Merchants' Square parking lots and Jamestown ferries. Who would have thought I'd miss New Yorkers and the Jersey June Bugs? Living in a tourist town means feeling the heady buzz of late-night revelers and all-day vacationers, smelling bonfires for weeks on end and getting a chuckle out of the college kids who can't hold their liquor or their self-respect in the harbor pubs; then, it means months of blissful quiet and serene solitude when the streets and beaches morph from sardine cans to ghost towns. It also means loads of shops and what-not shut down at 8:00p.m. or earlier and even some of the coffeehouses and bistros go very French and close at 3:00p.m.. (Case in point, but so worth the early effort: Antoine's Cafe in San Clemente. Ask for the owner, Veronique. Quelle femme! Quelle cafe!) Despite the oncoming winter-hours, ghost town is right around the bend and I cannot wait.

As my Viking and I walked the beach the other night, we noticed not only the clear absence of the mostly-nude, not counting a lingering walrus and her calves enjoying the last vestiges of the day, but we also noticed the summer solstice remnants of those holidaymakers now long gone. There were the obligatory, overflowing trash and recycle bins (mostly comprised of Corona beer bottles, President's Choice soda cans, Aquafina water bottles and the Trader Joe's boxes which once held dozens of bottles of Charles Shaw); a white Hefty bag full of paper plates, plastic utensils poking through the bag and the iconic, red, plastic, party cups, tied to the post of steps leading to the sand (Why that post? Is Davey Jones picking up trash these days?); a strewn trail of broken surfboards, busted Boogie Boards, trashed sunbrellas, deflated Mylar balloons; and, weirdly, an awful lot of solitary sandals and flip-flops (Where are the mates?). The strangest item? A high chair. Not on the sand, but up in the residential area on the road it stood sadly used and worked-over in front of a gorgeous, multimillion-dollar cliff house. It was not the kind of house in which one assumes the owners might have, let alone leave, a dirty, fungus-ridden, baby-feeding chair. It wasn't trash day, it couldn't have been on Craigslist, so why was it there? Where was the baby? Why was there mold on the seat? Why hadn't it been tossed way sooner? Why was there a fastened seat belt on it? (Moms, is that standard on baby chairs? Seat belts?) Why was it just standing there in the middle of the sidewalk, not even on the curb? Odd.

Remember, clean up your summer leavings, people.

I Call Your "White" People, Good Sir Lander, ... and Raise You "Nerdy"

2011-07-26T14:33:00.000-07:00

Things White People Like: an on-target compilation of, well, things we like. The full list, available at the official website, is frighteningly dead-on in its accuracy. My eerily, correctly identified personal faves on this list include: Asian Girls, Girls with Bangs, Being Offended, Hallowe'en, Standing Still at Concerts, Conan O'Brien, Coffee, Wine, Dogs, Vegetarianism, Art Degrees, Vintage, Grammar, Arrested Development, Netflix, David Sedaris and Breakfast Places (mostly for my Viking). I must, however, distance myself from Apple Products, Music Piracy, New Balance Shoes (not a tennis shoe kind of gal), Banksy, Facebook, Barack Obama, Promising to Learn a New Language (speak a few already) and Ugly Sweater Parties (why?).

Well done, Mr. Christian Lander, creator of said-2008-list ... your pinpoint insight disturbs me. Now, good sir, I call your White Jonesings and I raise you ... Nerdy.

White people do indeed come in many whiter shades of pale. Yet, there is no more superior, no more beautiful, no more translucent shade of pale than that of the White & Nerdy. It is a shade carefully honed and cultivated by days upon days of uninterrupted screentime, an innate distaste for the sun and a natural inclination toward nighttime, vampires, UFOs, ghosts, green ambient lighting, The X-Files and space ... all of which can only be enjoyed via moonlight, night-vision cameras and fairy lights. We do not find interest in Outdoor Performance Clothes, Wrigley Field, Snowboarding or Marathons. We do, as it pertains specifically to the original 2008 Lander list, like Graduate School, TED, Vespas, Film Festivals, Oscar Parties and Black Music That Black People Don't Listen to Anymore.

As I was doing one of my beachwalks last week (a White People thing, I'm pretty sure) a fave tune commenced to thumping on my non-Apple mp3-player: Weird Al's White and Nerdy. (Want a real W&N treat? See the Lego shot-for-shot remake of the original video! So v cool.) It gave me an extra bounce in my step, an uptick in my pace, a tighter squeeze in my hamstrings and got zee leetle grey zells moving and before I arrived at Gargamel's enclave, I'd devised a list of Stuff White & Nerdy People Like.

For your approval, my fellow White & Nerdys! (I am now flashing the W&N gang sign: left hand in a three-fingered "W"; right hand in an upside-down peace sign, an "N". Remember, always the "W" with the left hand, so the recipient can read it properly, otherwise it comes out left-to-right, like Hebrew, and you get the NW gang sign, which would be awesome, now that I think of it, for the F/V Northwestern. [Hey, boys! Very sad season 7 is now finished. Please, come back for 8!! Hmm, I wonder if there's a way to do a Time Bandit gang sign?]. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Also note, if you do an upside-down "W" with your right hand, you'll have the gang sign for the College of William and Mary. Go, Tribe.)

Asian Squirrel Gurls, with bangs ... what's not to like?

Stuff White & Nerdy People Like (In no particular order)

Comic Con (What kind of W&N would I be if I hadn't been published in the official Comic Con book?)
The Big Bang Theory (incl. memorizing the Barenaked Ladies' theme song)
CNNGeekOut blog
geology
robots
Bill Nye the Science Guy
Steve Martin
sci-fi and fantasy novels with anthropomorphic animals
Weezer
NASA
SyFy Channel
Star Wars
Star Trek
Rock-Paper-Scissors-Lizard-Spock
Periodic Table of the Elements (Fun idea: claim a corr. birthday element, if you find numerals offensive)
crafting historical and theatrical alter egos (incl. learning Elizabethan English, Klingon, swordplay, spells, etc.)
Wired magazine
Swedish Fish
Michael Cera
Dr. Michio Kaku
action figures
Weird Al Yankovic
notating in journals (yes, ye olde quill to parchment) and memorizing things like Pi, Drake Equation, hierarchy of performance art, accurate recall of the British monarchy since 1066, etc.
making and wearing costumes
using "one" as opposed to "you" or "I"
lunchboxes
George Noory
Grant Morrison, Supergods (You doth rock, Sir ... dig the accent, too!)
UFOs
Ghost Hunters (not Ghost Adventurers ... there is a difference)
Bigfoot
George Lucas
Skywalker Ranch
Mystery Science Theater 3K
Disneyland
The X-Files
Renaissance Faire
semi-audible snorts of derision
jokes involving German, Austrian or Swiss scientists
Bill Gates
reminding people Bill Gates saved Steve Jobs and Apple from oblivion with 150 million cabbages
jokes involving Windows Vista, DOS, neutrons or nematodes
The IT Crowd
Microsoft
Microsoft-blue button downs
any and all digital media
Fry's Electronics
Roku
Hello Kitty
t-shirts with math or code humour (skeletal humour works, too, as in "I find this humerus")
goths (Yet, we also like the originals: roaming Visigoths & Ostrogoths of the Roman Empire)
Voyager Golden Record
The Simpsons
comics
comic books (yes, they are different)
animation
saying Linux
American Dad!
historical- and/or technical-inaccuracies of any kind (so we can first laugh, then correct them)
bad grammar (ditto)
George Will
dictionaries
peppering conversation with foreign language-bon mots
shot-for-shot remakes
memorizing, then sporadically reciting, TV and movie quotes (incl. full dialogues with multiple characters)
role-playing
acquiring movie props (incl. the front-end of a film reel, cut and tossed, from an X-Files episode)
complaining about tech support
making lists

Did I forget anything, folks?