As a very brief follow-up to a previous post, wherein Sugar Belle Gets Served, and to respond to those curious as to whether or not I am indeed alive ... my Winter Grand Canyon adventure is a fait accompli: eight wild miles down the mouth of the great beast and ten arduous miles straight back up said-beast!

Where there are "no ladies west of Dodge City and no women west of Albuquerque", yours truly emerged with tootsies in tact (thanks to my remarkable, pink-and-brown, Ralph Lauren hiking shoes and surprisingly steadfast Bubble Gum-pink polish by Wet 'N Wild), skin refreshed (thanks to my faithful, pink, Dresden VonZipper sunglasses and Rx-grade sunscreen) and my mind clear as crystal (thanks to a respite from most media, all devices and replaced with great convo, the sounds of nature and some analog Simpsons comic books).

Fret not though, friends. A detailed, Mark Twain-styled, Peter Mayle-inspired, Bill Bryson-worthy, Jenny-length recounting of my Western episode, plus glorious slideshow, shall post soon, after my mind and body doth recover. It may take a while, though; for, besides scribing my Grand Canyon post, I am also prepping for WonderCon and, as of last week, am still coming to grips with Julian Fellowes' cruel decision to dispense with our dear Matthew Crawley of Downton Abbey. Why, Julian, why?!

Until then, just FYI, life below the Rim was life-changing. More to come ...

An open Christmas greeting to Nordstrom, in Haiku form:

Grand Dame of the North

Nordstrom brings festive Christmas

Thank you, Seattle!

Yeah, yeah, I know. "Shouldn't you be working on Savannah Book IV?" Yes, I should. However, like Ken Burns or Anthony Weiner, when something strikes my fancy, I attend to it. Last week it was the need for a shiny pair of red heels for the Holidays. Ca-caw! Ca-caw! (Done, BTW. Thank you, Jessica Simpson and Cap't. Bloodstone!) This week, it's Christmas shopping for others ... and a nice little harlot dress to go with those Jessica Simpsons for a Christmas partay!

As it pertains to reading, writing and even TV & film, I'm always in the mood for a good mystery, usually British and hopefully Victorian. Of course, in a video interview about The Darlings of Orange County with fellow author Natalie Wright, I admitted my brain doesn't seem to be wired for mystery writing; I have to watch the same episode of Poirot or Midsomer Murders over and over to recall who dunnit. Although I do know Maggie shot Mr. Burns. Ergo, I feel the need to challenge myself and do just that, write a mystery.

So, I've started a little something. It's still mise-en-scène in Colonial Williamsburg, but just a bit different. Want to see it? It's just page one, but here it goes!

Excerpt from Old Dead White Guys: The Colonial Williamsburg Murders (working title) by Jennifer Susannah Devore

“How many times a year do you see a dead colonial?” Agent Bruce looked up into the blinding January sun, her Ray-Bans doing nothing to block the glare bouncing up under the shades from the January snow that coated the oyster shell driveway.

“Depends which year,” Officer Hillstrand scratched behind his ear as he surveyed the crowd kept at bay by mounted police, a line of four horses standing stoic and still, their riders equally perfectly postured and unfazed by the dozens of cameras, attached to news teams and curious tourists alike, trying desperately to get a clear shot of the freshly deceased through a sizable gap in a series of white partitions placed around the crime scene.

“This is pretty damn bold,” Agent Bruce stood up with an audible groan, bracing both knees as she did so. “Smack dab in our face,” she placed her hands on her hips, her right hand instinctively upon her holster, and swiveled slowly to scan the crowds. “I guess the university dumpsters and the woods below The Green Leafe just weren’t flashy enough,” she snarked.

“This is flashy alright,” Hillstrand cringed as he looked at the body. “Where’s the other damn partition?!” he suddenly yelled. “Get that shit covered up now!” he pointed to the gap which opened slightly onto the Palace Green.

This time of year was actually excellent for a murder. The day was a bitterly cold one, hovering just around twenty-degrees. This was helpful on two fronts to the investigators: cold weather works like a walk-in freezer to preserve a dead body and nobody goes to Colonial Williamsburg in January. The gawkers grew in number, but nothing like the circus this could have been had this happened during the summer; not to mention the body would have been much worse twelve hours into rigor on a ninety-eight-degree Virginia day with ninety per cent humidity. Hillstrand shivered at that thought as he walked around the body to get another view from the backside. As he looked, he rubbed his neck. It was like sitting in the front row at the movies. He’d be happy once they could finally cut down the body. For now, he rubbed the growing crick and lolled his neck back and forth as he pondered the tempered, theatrical rage it took to stage this.

The body hung, dressed in full , British-colonial regalia: woolen knickers, a handsome, yet worn, frockcoat of a rust hue, white stockings and well-trod black clogs. A healthy fellow of about six feet and two-hundred-plus pounds, his sturdy frame swung awkwardly in the morning breeze on the front gates of the Governor’s Palace, one of Colonial Williamsburg’s most popular and photographed landmarks. Facing out toward town and the long Palace Green lawn, his hands were tied behind his back with his canteen straps. He hung by the neck exactly in the middle of the grand wrought iron gates that led into the Palace, where the two halves came together, suspended by his own leather mandolin strap; he was a musician, a strolling balladeer meant to give the living history museum an air of levity, entertainment and authenticity.

His mandolin remained strung to his body, but hung at an odd angle as it was still attached to the strap, securely ringing his neck. He also wore a smaller leather strap around his hips: a thin holster for his tin whistle. In fact, the whistle itself found a more intimate home where it now rested. The whistle had been rammed down his throat; but enough still emerged so that it made a sickening whistle when the winter breeze caressed and swung the body just right.

“Can we get this poor bastard down, yet?” Agent Bruce barked, just as what sounded like an A-sharp pierced the air.

“Just waiting on the M.E. He’s driving in from Richmond. I think he was fishing up there,” Officer Hillstrand offered.

“Fishing? In this kind of cold? Why? What the hell do you fish for in Richmond, anyway? Carp in a fountain?” Bruce, a San Diego native shrugged and pulled her Burberry scarf tighter.

Officer Edgar Hillstrand, himself a Seattle transplant and a passionate fisherman answered authoritatively, “Uh, the Chickahominy River runs up there and today’s the very last day of striped bass season.”

F.B.I. field agent Albie Bruce, who had started to walk away in search of hot coffee, turned back and raised her palms at Hillstrand, silently giving an all too clear, “Big whoop.”

“Well,” Hillstrand mistakenly took this gesture as a request for further information on local fishing, “see, today’s the last day you can fish for striped bass. After today, it’s illegal. Most likely, he’s doing his best to throw a few more hooks while he can,” he smiled, satisfied he’d offered up something pretty valuable.

Bruce didn’t look impressed or pacified and snapped, “I don’t give a crap what today is. I don’t care if it’s the last day to catch a damn mermaid and make her his personal love slave. We got a dead Robin Hood or whatever blowing in the wind here and I want him down. The longer he hangs here, the longer this whole case is compromised.”

Right on cue, the wind blew and the victim’s neck hit a nauseating C-minor. Bruce winced and looked at her victim. With a spark of pity for the method of demise, appropriate sorrow for the family members whom had yet to see the crime scene and a healthy bit of professional admiration for the killer’s attention to irony and detail, she shook her head and wondered why a grown man would dress up like Peter Pan, or whomever he was supposed to be, and run about with a bunch of other grown-up fools singing and strumming all over this overpriced, colonial Wally World?

She turned away from the body, then after a glance at an attentive Hillstrand whom was clearly awaiting instruction or query, watched as a couple of local law enforcement officers, bass fishermen she mused, finally secured the gap in the partition. She could hear audible disappointment from the Palace Green crowd and, disgusted, taught the oyster shell path a lesson as she crunched it mercilessly beneath her navy, Ralph Lauren, work pumps. She left the body and headed toward the temporary command center that was set up in the courtyard. She refilled her stainless steel coffee Thermos from one of the two large, metal coffee pots on a folding table. She splashed a dash of half-and-half inside, turning it the shade of Beyonce, screwed on the top, shook it, then unscrewed the top and filled the Thermos lid with steaming, bland comfort.

“First Colony coffee,” she scrunched her face in revulsion at the Virginia brew as she took a hearty yet vile gulp. “What a bunch of crap. Why can't I  get any damn Peet's in this town?”

As always, all material copyrighted and not permissible for copying, for commercial or private use. Cheers!

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Just as the serene and darkly beautiful drizzle and glow of autumn convince me Halloween is my fave holiday - ranking after my bday, of course - December sprinkles its silvery-whte skies with a magical mélange of cinnamon, fairy dust and smiles, convincing me that, now, Christmas is my fave holiday. Okie dokie, December! You win! No more Pumpkin Spice lattes; 'tis now time for Egg Nog lattes! ~Homer Simpson-style drool~ What could be more glorious than the Holidays? If you know Moi, only one answer reigns: Holidays at Disneyland Resort! At Christmastime, Disneyland Resort is vibrantly festooned with fresh designs, décor and delight ... including our famous, rollerskating snowflakes! Whether you prefer California Adventure, Disneyland Park or simply a leisurely date at Downtown Disney, Disneyland Resort in Anaheim proffers whatever you need to get your holiday cheer rolling. 

Entering California Adventure Park, you'll step into 1920s California on Buena Vista Street, with its classic, festive, Christmas overlay. Seasonal entertainment inside CA runs a wide, winter, multicultural spectrum: from the Disney Festival of Holidays to Disney ¡Viva Navidad!; from Mater's Jingle Jamboree hoedown and Luigi's Joy to the Whirl roadsters, in Cars Land to Santa's Holiday Visit at Redwood Creek, at Grizzly Peak.

Across the path, at the original Disneyland Park, you'll swoon with the truest, childhood glee, taking in all the Disney traditions of Holiday Time. A Christmas Fantasy Parade and It's A Small World Holiday will set your young heart aflutter. The bedazzling lights of Sleeping Beauty's Castle, Main Street and New Orleans Square will set your soul to sing. Thrilling those of us whom love Halloween as much as we love Christmas, Haunted Mansion Holiday delivers the perfect winter chill up your spine, with a charmingly sinister The Nightmare Before Christmas overlay. Making Christmas! Making Christmas! Snakes and mice get wrapped up so nice!

Both Parks, of course, will thrill you to your jingled toes with bright-lights spectacle: Believe ... in Holiday Magic fireworks at Disneyland, and World of Color - Season of Light fountain and laser show at California Adventure. Holiday décor, seasonal yummies and acres of magical merriment and finery wait eagerly to cloak you in good cheer and sheer joy, all across Disneyland Resort.

Do yourself a huge favour, by the way. Get at least one day of holiday shopping in with Mickey and Walt. If you're not close to any Disney Parks, or, maybe you are close, but don't want to pay $150+ addendum to your holiday shopping, or commit to an annual passport, no worries, kittens! For those near a Park, Downtown Disney shopping and dining districts, in both the Golden and Sunshine States, will feed your Disney holiday needs, sans the hefty admission fees. Fortunate enough to reside in fab metropoli of Europe or Asia? Lucky you! Tokyo, Hong Kong, Shanghai and Paris all have Parks for holiday indulgence. If all else fails, dear reader, a visit to your local mall's Disney Store can provide a travel-size portion of IRL Mickey cheer. Not even near a mall, you say? Hmm. Wow. Well, lemme a minute. Ah! ShopDisney.com whilst binging on Disney+ should get the job done nicely.

Remember, holiday shopping is not just about the buying; it's about the feel-good festivity of the day. The browsing, the strolling, the atmos and the hot cocoa, spiced cider and egg nog lattes can make even going home with one, twee gift feel like you've conquered Chrstmas, or one day of Hanukkah. (IMHO, going into New Year's debt over presents is unsavvy. Savvy? It really is the thought that counts. True, Disney may not be the least expensive brand; but there are plenty of goodies throughout the Resort under $25 with a beautifully unique and personal factor, especially for those fellow Disney-geeks on your lists. Enjoy the season for yourself, as well as those you love so dearly ... and, save some Earth monies to buy an Annual Passport for the New Year!) 

Whether it's precious alone-time - do not underestimate the joy of Disney meandering by oneself - or a special day with a good pal, whether it's a Disney jaunt with a lovey-dovey or a tiny loved one, Disneyland Resort provides everything your modern senses require for the perfect holiday season. Disneyland is for fun, friends and family. Who knows what next year may bring? You owe it to yourself. Be happy! Be merry! Be kind! Go to Disneyland!

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Mr. Snowman has been patient, all the autumn through.

Now he’s ready to vogue and pose and preen,

To oversee your snow angels, powder fights and frolics.

Pine boughs and incense, cinnamon and peppermint.

Sugar cookies and gingerbread, snickerdoodles and milk.

Pfeffernüsse and Gewurztraminer, spice cookies and mulled wine,

Of all the holiday making, the baking and cooking call us home best.

Fairy lights glitter and dance in the fireplace glow,

As they hug the tree and adulate the dearest décor,

That box of precious, priceless family adornments,

Waiting patiently through the year, much as Mr. Snowman.

Presents tied with velvet bows and wreaths wrapped with grapevines,

Garden gnomes with Santa hats and carriage lights ringed with pine,

Welcome all whom enter, those we hold dear and those we wish to know.

‘Tis Christmastime and no season’s more special with cheer,

Than that which brings us all home at once,

Than that which brings us all love at home.

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‘Tis crisper, cooler, brisker, sharper,

Like a bite from a chilled, candied apple.

The wind and weather now zip through the trees.

Shaking loose leaves of orange, red and gold,

Leaving mere bones and fingers of bark and birch.

Dark Italian roasts, mulled spider ciders and spiced pumpkin lattes,

Perfect complements to all the season’s feasts.

Families are amassing, friends are warming near,

Enveloped and embraced by a fete’s baking, cooking and cocktails,

All warm and sugared comforts, certain to please.

Cinnamon, cardamom, nutmeg, coffee and wine,

The smells of the season lead us home year after year.

Bringing the best of autumn together, the best of family and friends,

The very best of everything, the very best of us on this Thanksgiving Day.

Happy Tofurkey Day to All!

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In the spirit of the holiday and being the Hallowe'en freak I am, it occurred to Moi it was time to read one of the essentials of Western literature, one of the earliest titles ever printed, a book, at the height of its popularity, outsold only by The Bible. Whilst I knew well of this tome and do ever so enjoy speaking its mellifluous name, I had not ever read The Malleus Maleficarum. "What, pray tell, is the Malia Whatch-a-ma-callit?, you may ponder. Well, 'tis really more of a Witch-a-ma-callit. Ha!

No laughing matter when it was written by Heinrich Kramer & James Sprenger and first published in 1486, it served as a guidebook and reference source for the Christian community, church leaders, nosy neighbors, municipal courts and the official Inquisitors of the Inquisition. Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!

The Malleus Maleficarum was written as a guide to seeking, identifying and prosecuting, thus vanquishing and dispatching of, witches. Didn't believe in witches? No worries, disbelief itself was at best heresy, at worst a sign of a witch. Being a redhead (Well, we all know my feelings on those Redheads! Ha!), having moles or birthmarks (Oft sought by town elders, always male, upon the nude bodies, usually female, of suspected witches for hours and hours of probing, poking and pinching.), possessing a quiet nature, possessing a rambunctious nature or cultivating a belief in the burgeoning fields of science were all excellent, possible signs of a witch. I highly suspect Gladys Kravitz, beauteous and spirited Samantha Stevens' crotchety old neighbor on Bewitched, had a copy on her windowsill. Something other than Heaven help you if you were found guilty.

Whilst the final, waning days of the witch trials peaked here in America with our very own Salem Witch Trials in 1692, the two and a half centuries previous ran Amok, amok, amok! across Europe with figures, dazzlingly varied but horrific even on the lightest-end, numbering 600K - 9Million men, women and children burned alive, drowned, stoned, hanged or tortured to death as witches. With too many specifications to sift through, sometimes the Inquisitors could simply rely on the time-tested generalizations of those "who did not fit within the contemporary view of pieous Christians", "old", "Jewish", "gypsy", "outcast" or the old standby, "a woman".

With such a verifiable and terrible history of inhumanity around which to wrap our modern brains, all one can do four-hundred-plus years later is make a joke or two, produce quirky films about the period (Hocus Pocus, for one, rocks!) or, like yours truly, travel to Salem, Mass. to celebrate Hallowe'en, dress up like Abby Sciuto or Bellatrix Lestrange , stay in the Hawthorne Hotel and blog about it all in November! (I could also work it into a future Savannah of Williamsburg title: maybe a 1600s prequel to the series?)

As a good friend stated sagely upon learning My Viking and I were headed to Salem with the Parental Units for the holiday: Salem Witch Trials? Oh, yeah? Might as well capitalize on that shit, right? True dat, pal.

On the jokey side of this vile and embarrassing era of Western civilization, I came across this "review" of The Malleus Maleficarum on Goodreads. It was such an out-of-the-box review, I couldn't believe Moi didn't write it first. Damn. Oh well, credit where credit is due, I had to share!

A Review by R:

"Why is your son dressed like a pilgrim?"

"Oh, it's a phase he's going through."

"Why is he piling up all that wood?"

"Oh, it's a...a phase. We're pretty certain it's a phase. You know kids, ha-ha."

"Ha-ha. Why is he tying your youngest, his brother, to a pole? And...a gasoline can? Matches??! Is that a phase, too?"

"No. Witches. You can't suffer them to live."

"I suppose you're right. You can't."

"No. You really can't."

"For a second there..."

"Yeah, I know. But, no. Witch. Well, warlock, to get technical about it."

"Your youngest, though..."

"Yes, I...I know. Don't think it didn't surprise me."

"Thank God your oldest is going through that phase."

"Tell me about it. Saves me the job, you know."

"Ha-ha!"

"Ha-ha! Ha!"

Review by R, just R. Head on over to Goodreads and give his review, your review!

By the by, as I read R's review, I instantly envisioned the scene with very specific actors: Tina Fey as Talbot's cardigan-donned Mom, those off-putting, strange little Children of the Corn twins on "Everybody Loves Raymond" and Steve Martin as the casually well-dressed, Brooks Brothers-sporting neighbor across the Marblehead, autumn leaf-laden, stone fence. Who did you envision? Tell R!

Happy Hallowe'en, all!

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Because you know j'adore mes Barbies as much as j'adore Hallowe'en, voila! The first in a series of Hallowe'en Barbies! Haunted Beauty Ghost Barbie by designer Bill Greening. Oh, mais oui, SVP!

Now, as the other Holidays are fast-approaching and my long sought-after, annual, Christmas list is currently brewing amidst zee leetle grey zells ... ~ahem~

Dear Sandy Claws,

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When the moon glows full and the brisk wind howls strong,

The night for all spirits, faeries and fiends comes alive.

The party is set, the festivities draw near.

Witches, pirates, werewolves and beasts prepare themselves fierce,

For an o’ernight feast and fete, they’ve been awaiting all the year.

Spiced pumpkin lattes, caramel apples, black witchy shoes and stripey socks appear.

Cinnamon, nutmeg and spiders fill the creaks and corners

Of haunted houses and mansions, from Old Salem to the California shores.

Samhain, Hallowe’en, All Hallows’ Eve, Harvest Moon or Mischief Night.

Whatever you may call it, set your senses high.

For amidst the purple, the black, the red and the orange,

The goblins, ghouls, ghosties and gremlins are out and about and waiting for you!

Happy October, Everyone!

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