To quote Larry Daivd, "It's enough already." Sure, it seems fun: these slow, warm, lazy, final days of summer in the sand and surf. Mid-April of the year, I could barely wait to toss off the Hugh Hefner smoking jacket and J. Crew plaid flares. Now, deep into September (standard SoCal heat wave season) I've donned neither real shoes nor actual clothing in months: the de rigueur uniform for April-September around here is a bikini and a Tahitian bark-cloth sarong. As a rule, unless absolutely necessary, like Kevin Dillon's Entourage character Johnny Drama, I do not venture inland April-October; if I really must, I hydrate well. (Legend has it today was 108 in the Inland Empire. No thank you.)

It's too hot to eat anything and my hair has reverted to its natural, Polynesian-frizz state. I blame Dad's Hawaiian genes. Despite copious amounts of Aveda anti-humectant pomade and Kiehl's "deeply restorative" saffron hair oil, all I can bear to do is whip up my wet blanket of locks into a neat, tight, ballerina bun. In the midst of our current, heinous heat wave, I've given up trying to style myself on any level, leaving me fashioned more like a cross between Rebecca De Mornay in Lords of Dogtown and a wet seal. My preferred, vintage mode of Dita Von Teese-meets-American Hustle shall have to wait. I will concede, however, that nighttime around here smells glorious in the summer, despite being too hot to actually sleep: the evening air conflates with the aroma of bonfires, salt air and suntan oil. It smells like a delivery truck of Hawaiian Tropic SPF2 crashed and spilled all over a Yosemite campground.

Sweet smells of coconut or no, I am done. Done with summer. If you follow my blogs, books and bewildering Tweets regularly (Thank you, BTW!), you know well of my linen-thin tolerance for picture-perfect, postcard weather. To be sure, I can do the bikini & martini thing when the situation calls for it; I can do summer with the best of them! It's just not my altogether gig. Oh sure, to quote Alec Baldwin (commenting on Jerry Seinfeld's charmed life, but apropos here), my life does seem to be "one unbroken boulevard of green lights". 'Tis a grand life, no doubt ... but I need some rain, snow and viable change-of-seasons once in a while. I crave a good old-fashioned, Seattle-style, clam chowder-and-Guinness, incessant kind of rain. Besides, sunscreen is bonkers expensive; my sundry fund needs a break.

Colour me whiny, but this is my traditional, late-summer rant. I imagine fellow Spooky Girls, Kat Kinsman (CNN's Eatocracy writer,) and Rebecca Lane (pretty half-Brit, vintage gal and L.A. actress à la Old Hollywood) understand fully. Right now, in their funky noggins they're scheming Hallowe'en costumes, dusting off Bettie Page cap-toe shoes and shaking out vintage, velvet opera capes, just waiting patiently for the right day to wear it all. (Lucky for Ms. Kinsman, she lives in Brooklyn. She should have cool weather very soon.) Thankfully for us California Spooky Girls, October, and Halloweentime at Disneyland, are only a tad further nigh.

When I can, I will dash to the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland, to assuage my Gothic and autumnal needs. Film and TV like Sleepy Hollow, Midnight in Paris, It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown, Hocus Pocus, Northern Exposure, The X-Files and Charmed keep my psyche in Gomez Addams-style, Burberry velvet blazers, patent leather boots and vintage homburgs. There's also a score of literature and art to keep Moi excited about an East Coast autumn: Nathaniel Hawthorne, Phaedra Weldon, Anne Rice, Edgar Allan Poe, Tonya Hurley, Katherine Howe and, of course, old, Charles Addams comic books.

In case you're feeling a tad sun-stroked yourself, please enjoy my slideshow above: a smattering of delightfully gloomy and wintry imagery for the sunny/Gothic soul. Snaps of rain, dark skies, puppies in sweaters, Vikings in scarves, cozy autumn mode, Jack-o-lanterns, ravens, ghost pirate-ships, drippy candleabra, black-lace parasols and Johnny Depp ... Spooky Girls always like Johnny Depp.

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Even more fun than the Name Game itself, is playing with someone whom is, as yet, unaware. Funny enough, there's an unspoken etiquette to the game, even to the uninitiated. If the cohort in question becomes slightly confused upon hearing you proffer your alias upon the requisite, " ... and your name?", most will simply shoot a sly, sideways glance and never say a word. My sisters-in-law are exceptionally respectful of this rule. They've heard all my Starbucks names, rarely bat an eye and have never once said, "That's not your name!". Beware, he who calls out the charade! For shame!

My Starbucks names are varied, but few: Lourdes, Hannah, Veronica, Brigitte and, one time, Saffron. Lourdes is my standard. Hannah and Lucy were de rigueur for my sister-in-law and Moi at Comic-Con this summer. Occasionally, I'll go with Veronica, mostly at Orange County locations. Initially, I adopted Veronica in an effort to promote my latest novel The Darlings of Orange County. My bright idea?  All my friends and fam in the book should use their character names as their Starbucks names. "Lorelei" tried once, but got all nervous, stammered, then just blurted out her own name. "Ryan" did it a few times, to amuse me and "Pardo" seems to have chickened out altogether after getting all nervous at a La Jolla Starbucks, à la Lorelei. Pardo? Quad shot over ice? Pardo? See how nicely that works, especially at an Encinitas store, where his character resides. I go for café often with Pardo and Ryan; both refuse to amuse me anymore.

My first Starbucks name was Brigitte, which I happily used for nearly a year, until one too many baristas misspelled and/or mispronounced my name. It's bri-ghee-tah. Not Bridget. Brigitte, with the final e pronounced strongly, as in Porsche. (Yes. Please, people, Porsche is a family name, a German name. In German, that trailing e is pronounced, strongly. Not Porsch ... Porsche. I know from firsthand knowledge. I speak German, not as well as French but better than Italian, and can get by adequately. Ist es nicht vertig, meine Hiltrud? Also, mein Vater owned a couple of the great, rumbly beasts. The first one he bought, he accidentally drove in reverse when driving it off the lot, waving goodbye to the sales staff. It's clear where I get my dork genes.)

Lourdes, my go-to go-by, proves difficult for many a barista as well: Lordis, Lotus, Lortus, Loordin, Lorus, Lordus and so on. Still, it's easier than Brigitte. To be fair, a barista in Portland, Maine not only spelled it correctly, but called it out in the proper, French pronunciation: no s. Cheers, Portland!  

There once was a fellow I knew named Pete. Pete was a tall, uberkind, Dutch-type and a veterinarian from Aliso Viejo. He patronized a Starbucks just down the road in Laguna Hills and there, he was known as Pedro and he was not a veterinarian, but a construction worker. He did drive a pick-up truck (large animal vet, by training and education), but was a snazzy dresser and very Norlander-looking. How he pulled it off effectively each morning, I'm not sure.

Now, to be fair, one of the original Name Gamers is my brother-in-law. Zim, we'll call him. Zim has used the name "Lord" for ages. Like Cher or Madonna, it's just Lord. For full disclosure, he is in fact, an English lord of sorts: an occurrence of title which happened well after the Starbucks fun had commenced. Not nearly as romantic, historic or posh as a royal grant given a family ancestor under the auspices of Charles II or some such nonesuch. Yet, not in an altogether different manner than many a nobleman throughout history, he bought his way into a title.

Zim purchased a wee bit o' land yonder and, voila! ... is now Lord Devore, really. He still eats bisquits and gravy like an animal, but he's an English land-holding lord nonetheless. There is probably little effect day-to-day, however whenever he books a Virgin Atlantic or British Airways flight, he can verily tick "Lord" in the Title-dropdown box when entering his name. Now, that might get him early boarding and perchance an upgrade, if space is available. I've always deemed this Lord business of Zim's as a wildly fun divertissement. I very well may follow his lead. I may have been born an Only Child, but not a contessa, and I should have been. I blame my ancestors. Zim, if you're reading, be a doll, give us a link or two. Contessa Devore has a very nice ring indeed. Together, we could rule Christmas.

Why do all this, you ponder? What kind of wackadoo not only makes up a fake name for café, but then writes about it? A writer. Nice to meetcha! I love names, I always have. When I was very wee, preschool-wee, I had a fave doll whom I named Miss Anais Thirinkous Ornistinous. She was Greek, apparently. I had a Hawaiian rag doll Daddy bought me on vacation and I named her Penina Noelani. (Noelani is actually one of my middle names. Hmm. Maybe that's where I get it. Maybe it's innate, as I do have three middle names.) I name my laptops (Farfel, Charlie Brown), my luggage (The Judson T. Welliver Society), my pets have all had middle names (Ichabod Wolfgang Crane, Catrina Tituba, Onyx Treacle, Bella Lugosi, Constanze Wolfy) and, like any good, California girl, I've always named my cars: in order, Gidget, Gromit, Petra Petrovich, Adm. Horatio Jameson, Lord Kilwillie. I even named my Starbucks cards, really: the original is Little Jerry Seinfeld, whilst my Starbucks Gold card is C-3PO.

Now that you know, in case you were one of the uninitiated, will you play the Starbucks Name Game? What will your Starbucks name be? Already play the Name Game? Who is your alias? If you're patronizing, or working at, a SoCal Sbux and hear a barista call out, or perchance you are the barista, "Iced Venti Americano with two pumps of raspberry?" or, in the autumn, "Pumpkin Spice Latte made with soy, no whip?" for Veronica, Lourdes, Hannah, Saffron or maybe even Magnolia, for I sometimes call myself Magnolia, look around ... it just might be Moi!

Tchuss!

P.S. If you are a Darlings of Orange County character, especially when in the O.C. (don't call it that), be a mensch, use your Darlings name pour Moi? That's you Kieran, Ceasar, Chet, Lorelei, Dr. Mandy, Tucker, Sasha, Astrid, Pardo and Sugar Belle. In fact, you don't even need to be a namesake. Feel free to use any of my character names for your Starbucks name! I'd love to hear Pardo, Astrid or Sugar Belle called out one day!

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Prairie purveyor Harriet Oleson, might well turn up her nose at the bottled, dried and otherwise preserved mammalia in the curiosity cabinets of Dr. Watson’s Steampunk Odditorium. Of course, that would be the well-bred, prim, Victorian in Mrs. Oleson: posh country-wife to Nels and mother to the precocious and glorious Nellie Oleson. The sales-savvy, shrewd Mrs. Oleson, the pioneer proprietress of Little House on the Prairie's Oleson's Mercantile, would covet and embrace San Diego's newest emporium of steampunk ephemera. She would see a thriving capitalism, bordered and framed fancifully by ruffles and feathers of gilded, Victorian-era proportions in the mighty powerful, contemporary trend that is Steampunk. A steadily growing interest in Victorian-tech and word-of-mouth about this beachside bazaar are both running at locomotive speed, headed straight for each other and powering Dr. Watson's, and its formidable owner, straight into hogsheads full of 21st C. gold nuggets and peer popularity.

Having recently covered San Diego Comic-Con for GoodToBeAGeek.com, I naturally went in costume. It’s what I do, as many of you long-time readers know. Amidst the fervor, chaos and unrelenting joy that is Comic-Con, my cohort and I fielded the same question ad nauseam: “What is steampunk, anyway?” Imagery from Sherlock Holmes to Jules Verne, Wild Wild West to Copper were invoked and, despite the seemingly enthusiastic discussions, most glazed over midway, stole a few snaps and moved along toward less taxing, more easily explained cosplay like Catwoman, Doctor Who, Bender and Duff Man. Whilst overall, steampunk was a rarity, my cosplay partner-in-crime and I found a smattering of, if not small, worthy steampunk folk about the Con. League of Steam, for one: "Victorian-era Monster Hunters Serving All Your Supernatural Elimination Needs Since 1884". (Check back here at Hallowe'en; I shall be posting a League piece during the season!) Still not certain what this damned steampunk is? Voila … a succinct introduction.

During my quest for further sartorial inspiration in the final weeks before Comic-Con, I ventured up the beach to Dr. Watson's. A personal recommendation plus a bit o’ Bing searching lay the leather-and-mechanical path to whimsy. Mise-en-scène amidst one of San Diego's most eclectic populations -marines via Camp Pendleton, surfers and skaters, tatted rockabillies, Bettie Page wannabes, wealthy property owners, hippies, retirees, vacationers, Real Housewives, the homeless, shadow immigrants and so much more- Oceanside, California is just the fragmented and funky community to welcome this proctor of peculiar paraphernalia.

Dr. Watson's is part-natural history museum, part-western general store and all saloon decor. It is run by one Tracy Scheidel, best described as an AntennaTV-worthy, feisty-yet-soft-hearted protagonist, an amalgam of Gunsmoke's Miss Kitty, Little House on the Prairie's Harriet Oleson and Dukes of Hazzard's Boss Hogg. I'm guessing if she likes you, you're in good shape about this town. Owning a fair swath of property and store-frontage along famed PCH, (Body Piercing by Tracy and About Face Tattoo, to start) Tracy Scheidel is an affable, intriguing and inquisitive conversationalist. Possessing a quality so few have, yet so many covet, hers is a social talent leading the visitor to believe of their utmost importance in her day. What you want, she has. What you need, she’ll attempt to satisfy. What you love, she loves. In another life, she might have been a formidable madam, saloonkeep or politician.

The Odditorium is sentried nicely by a charming, bombilating black-tressed, pale-skinned, rouge-lipped, saloon girl-slash-manageress called Miss Celeste. What you need, she also wants for you and will go to lengths to get it. She will also ask, sincerely, "How did you hear of us?" As eager and positive about the Odditorium and its livelihood as is Madame Tracy, Miss Celeste also maintains the shop's Facebook page, posting photos, articles and upcoming events.

Like a welcoming saloon after days on a lonesome desert ride, Miss Celeste and Madame Scheidel, in this surfside museum-cum-mercantile, amidst the shrunken heads, dried bats, vintage Playboy magazines, leather top hats, feathered baubles and mechanical goggles, will have you nestled nicely on their inviting divan. From there, you can watch a private fashion show, your special girl model striped, Victorian bloomers, Betty Grable-inspired bathing suits, Dita Von Teese-styled tap dance shorts, Sherlock Holmes-worthy plaid trousers and Lonesome Dove-ready cotton chemises. All the while sipping gratis coffee and noshing from an assortment of Little Debbies. Before you know it, just like that oasis saloon, you’ll have happily and easily spent a few hours and a few more dollars. Makes me think a steampunk saloon, along the lines of Old School Vegas, Fremont Street's Golden Gate Hotel & Casino, might not be a bad idea, for Madame's next venture.

Dr. Watson's Steampunk Odditorium, proprietress Tracy Scheidel

421.A South Coast Highway

Oceanside, California 92054

760.757.6628

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Madame Scheidel, may I suggest adding the Hello Kitty Moustache collection? How could you not?

Some are born Geek, some achieve Geekness and others have Geekness thrust upon them. For those of us whom are verily Geek-at-Heart, we shall not be shedding the title as quickly as a West Hollywood hipster sheds his iPad the moment Apple bids him so. Whilst many will claim the title of Geek, as to be Nerd/Dork/Geek/Wonk is très chic, it is a dangerous, double-edged lightsaber ... wait, they're columnar in shape. Anyhoo, we may live blissfully in our own, little biospheres; yet we are easy targets, like a wounded dolphin, or the only kid dressed up like a pilgrim the Wednesday before school lets out for Thanksgiving Weekend.

From sea to nerdy Cameron-submersible sea, forest to dorky Bigfoot forest, Skywalker Ranch and beyond the solar flares, this proudly pale populace has some serious ideas about what is fun and what is not. Summer is here and it can be a tough time for us, what with the sun, the outdoors and the prospect of a proper, dress-up holiday still months away. Never mind all that; we know what makes for real summer fun and with all due respect to the rest of you, to quote The Big Bang Theory's Dr. Sheldon Cooper, "You're having fun wrong."

Summer can be a bit of a free-radical situation for us: left to fend for ourselves amidst the plains and savannas of a deconstructed season, fighting against the harsh summer sun and the expected, traditional, normal outdoor activities of the average, summer reveler. In adult-life, as in school, just because it's summer, doesn't mean the wedgies cease. In such situations, it is only natural to seek the like-minded. When the broad landscape is dotted with the frequently unavoidable herds of roaming, aggressive, beefy, sunny, beachy, geek-squashers it is often necessary for the more fragile, the proverbial 98-pound weaklings, to gather and move in clusters. The sand-kickers can’t get us all if we move as one.

If it is entirely plausible that you could spend a joyful afternoon at Peet's Coffee having a serious debate about whether Han or Greedo shot first, you just might find the following summer alternatives to beach volleyball, backyard BBQs and 5K mud runs great fun indeed. I cannot advise on alternatives in your backyard, but as a Cali Girl, I will gladly walk you through some of my Golden State's finest, oft air-conditioned, cerebral, summer dork attractions.

• San Diego Comic-Con: Certainly a toss-up, as to whether this should take the number one or two spot. In the end, it had to be crowned as supreme. Comic-Con is Mecca for con geeks the world over, even the new breed of geek: the poseur. C-C has become the new Studio 54. Few at the 1970s, iconic, NYC discotheque probably actually loved disco. Today, it's questionable how many Comic-Con attendees even read comic books, let alone have a passion for the medium. Still, decades after Richard Alf et al gifted the Geek World with the original SDCC and after all the poseurs have moved on, when The Big Bang Theory runs its course, the real fans will still faithfully flood the San Diego Convention Center each July, giving the San Diego Fire Marshal four sleepless nights every summer.

• Disneyland: Like Salieri to Mozart or Sean Penn's Emmet Ray to Django Reinhardt, were there no Comic-Con, Disney would clearly reign on this list. If you’re fortunate enough to have an annual passport, chances are good you can’t get enough of Star Tours and its fifty-some possible scenarios, The Haunted Mansion, Indiana Jones, a Johnny Depp-frosted Pirates of the Caribbean and browsing ad nauseam the Capodimonte-laden glass shelves of Main Street's Disneyana. We Disney devotees do enjoy the occasional, audible snort of derision at new attractions and additions and love to regale newbies and family first-timers with behind-the-scenes Park trivia (especially those of us whom worked there). Overall, it is our church of sorts and if you don’t like Goths, stay away mid-September through January, for The Nightmare Before Christmas overlay at The Haunted Mansion is really, honestly, to die for, kids.

• Renaissance Pleasure Faire: This one’s the original, yon friends. It's usually over before summer solstice hits, but you'll find plenty of other faires up and down the state. Yet, prithee, this is the Hamlet of Renaissance festivals. Oft simply called "Southern" or "Ren Faire", it’s been around since what feels like Queen Elizabeth I and Sir Walter Raleigh were playing footsies behind hogsheads and if you’re well-acquainted with Faire, then you know the tacit rules of conduct: no polyester, no real names, no Victorian Gary Oldmans from Dracula, keep your tongue in character and do not ask us if our costumes are hot. It's almost always 100 degrees and with the exception of our cleavages, we're swathed head-to-toe in leather, velvet, suede and fur. What thinkst thou? Faire is no place for steampunk and there’s also an internal, heated and on-going debate about Captain Jack Sparrow, because he’s a "made-up pirate". Of course, most of the pirate guilds are themselves comprised of made-up pirates. I give you geek.

• Conan: Deserving of a Larry King suspenders & glasses/Arnold sausage snap combo-pantomime, this day trip can’t be beat, even by the Masturbating Bear. Whether you're a lucky local of beautiful downtown Burbank or saving up your game tokens for a Golden State sojourn, a Conan taping is probably the second best taping you can attend in The Valley. Tickets are free, but the online lottery is hit 'n miss. Still, if you can nail a date and don't mind being in Burbank on a weekday, you’ll be better than just about everybody back home on the farm.

• Huntington Library and Gardens: Word nerds, book geeks and art history-snarks, this is your perfect afternoon, except Tuesdays and only from 10:30-4:00 in the summer, 12-4 otherwise. Of course, if you want to miss traffic getting out of the Pasadena-area, you’d best try to be out of the parking lot by 2:30, 3:00 tops. Home to a Gutenberg Bible, an Ellesmere manuscript of The Canterbury Tales, scores of early-Shakespearean papers, Audubon folios and a selection of 18thC. French and English decorative arts that would make Sofia Coppola swoon, the quiet and hidden treasure of L.A. museums is clandestinely tucked away in upscale, residential San Marino, an old money suburb of Pasadena. If you’re drawn to English incunabula, powdered wigs, French Lace roses and think Joshua Reynold's Sarah Siddons as Tragic Muse is just downright hot, then you’d better get going. Traffic will be a total nightmare in about forty minutes.

As a bonus, I must toss in The Hotel del Coronado. Though not a geek-oriented destination in and of itself, unless you’re bonkers for Victorian architectural detail, it is home to our favourite geek ghost, Miss Hannah Hart, ghostdame of The Hotel del Coronado. What?! You don’t know Miss Hannah Hart? Zowie!, as she would decry! Best get yourself over to GoodToBeAGeek.com and introduce yourself to this sassy and brassy, 1930s, Old Hollywood dame whom finds your casual wardrobe and slack-jawed vernacular a disgrace. Boyz-o! Does she have some opinions about you!

Clearly, because we are Geek, I rest assured many of you will disagree with my list, if only to dispute its hierarchy. Moreover, I expect others will rant and rail over omissions and inclusions. Please, do share @JennyPopCom or @GoodToBeAGeek. Like learning a Hotel Del ghostie girl is as bonkers for Carl Barks comic books as I am, it's always a thrill to learn where more of my own kind roam at will, without threat or fear of a good swirly.

 

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For all of you whom wanted to go but can't make it, either because you were unsuccessful in nicking a badge through the Con's wonky, mad, digital dash for online purchases, or it was just never in the cards for you to get to America's Finest City this summer, I shall be your big eyes and perky ears throughout Geek Mecca.

Directly from the San Diego Convention Center floor I shall be Tweeting and Facebooking only the choicest gossip and sweetest pics: hot Manga girls, celebrity sightings, bonkers cosplay, even that guy who absolutely should not be wearing Spandex. If it's worthy, I shall be covering it for JennyPop.net and GoodtobeaGeek.com., under my pseudonym Miss Hannah Hart, ghostdame of The Hotel del Coronado.

• 2 Grand Prize Goodie Bags Incl. one official Comic-Con Souvenir Book, autographed by author Jennifer Susannah Devore on her article, That Other Jane: 100 Years of Tarzan, Lord of the Jungle, Heartbreaker , plus a collection of goodies from random floor vendors as well as some official Comic-Con Schwag  Bag contents. (Note: fewer than twenty writers appear in each year's Souvenir Book. Getting a signed one is a rare treat indeed. Keep yours mint; Jen's getting bigger by the day! Fan-wise, that is.)

• 3 Goody Giveaways per convention day (Goody = one promotional item from random convention floor vendors) I don't even know what these are, yet! I'll be Tweeting them live from the floor. Trade shows and conventions are chock full of awesome tidbits ranging from coffee mugs and comic books to games and anime key chains. Who knows?!

How to win? Easy Peasy! Just Tweet or FB the following during the SDCC dates of July 12th-July15th!

• 2 Grand Prizes:

1. One Facebook Fan: "Like" Savannah of Williamsburg on FB and post a quote from one of Jennifer Devore's Savannah of Williamsburg books. (Don't have a book? Get a free Kindle or Nook sample at Amazon and BN.com. Every quote gets you an entry!)
2. One Twitter Pal: Follow @JennyPopCom and Tweet a short quote from any of Jennifer Devore's Savannah of Williamsburg books.

• Daily Goody Giveaways: Follow @JennyPopCom with a Tweet containing  #SavannahofWilliamsburg and #SDCC, or "Like" Savannah of Williamsburg on Facebook and post a Comic-Con greeting on her wall!

Abyssinia at the Con, cats!

All prizes will be mailed after SDCC 2K12. All winners shall be selected at random from qualified entries. In the event of any dispute whatsoever, I will be the final arbiter of final judgement under any circumstance. There is no cash value. As a condition of entry, entrants are expressly prohibited from making any claims whatsoever. No third party shall bear any responsibility whatsoever in relation to this promotion, including but not limited to syndicates, partners and affiliates. This contest is held solely by jennypop.com. This contest is held solely for fun. Have fun!

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"I still don't get it, Jennifer. What the heck is Steampunk?"

Voila, the de rigueur response from most when hit with a steampunk reference. Nebulous, querulous Steampunk. Briefly? 'Tis an anachronistically-based, alternate-existence, period-shod, fantasy world wherein steam power industry mixes bombastically with the funky, sharp vibes of modern technology ... plus a lot of airships, corsets, leather tophats, octopi (weirdly), 6" granny boots and fingerless gloves. "Quod the quod?", you cry. No worries. It doesn't actually matter. It's just a bit of stylish fun.

Steampunk is a weird and wild wedding of fashion, decor and technology flanked by the bridesmaids of science-fiction and fantasy. It's a mad, mad, mad, topsy-turvy swirl of Victorian-era British Colonialism, the American West, 19thC. Industrial Revolution and NASA. If Charles Dickens, Gail Carriger, Jules Verne, Walt Disney, Dr. Michio Kaku, Edward Gorey and Tim Burton co-recreated a Gilbert & Sullivan musical, you'd have Steampunk, sort of. Lift your opera glasses and have a peek at Xerposa: All Things Steampunk.

For a more intellectual exploration, take a few moments and treat yourself to Science Channel's Prophets of Science Fiction, specifically the Jules Verne episode. Dr. Kaku himself will help guide you through the leaves and pages of Verne's Victorian-futuristic literary themes.

Anyhoo, whilst Gwen Stefani's L.A.M.B., Vivienne Westwood, Betsey Johnson and Ralph Lauren have been giving us teases n' tastes of the Victorian-fantasy look for years, Prada, with the help of Gary Oldman, Garrett Hedlund, Jamie Bell and Willem Dafoe, now gives us a four-course, sartorial feast with the Fall/Winter 2012 line of menswear ... steampunk inspired, clearly. After viewing the dapper, magically digital spectacle above, spot a bit o' ladies' steampunk through your spyglass at Clockwork Couture.

Need an altogether visual? Portlandia, as it does with all its targets, spoofs it best: Steampunk Convention. (A little too spot-on!) What's your fave steampunk mode: literature, film, fashion designer, photographer, or artiste otherwise? Share with Moi!

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Inspired by a simple yet beautiful Instagram photo, by fashion and design superstars at Demu Label, I add my own voice, echoing historical scriveners, to the present paradigm of writers, designers and sketch artists everywhere. I declare, "La plume et le papier ne sont pas mort!" The pen and paper are not dead!

Like a garden shed or one's shoe closet, the journal is a storage unit of sorts: a private spot where one gathers, collects and organizes one's thoughts before committing them to the exposure, sunlight and scrutiny of the harsh outside world. Combined in perfect unison and in complementary usage throughout the creative process and stages, the pen, the journal, the lone bits of hotel notepad paper, plus all necessary digital mechanisms can trudge forth as one. Vive le tablet, vive le laptop, but longer vive the pen and the paper! (Waterman pens, especially :D Thanks, Mom!)

Happy Scribbling!

With the exception of Del Mar, bits of L.A. and Laguna Beach on a Saturday night, Southern California is fast becoming a sartorial desert, at least south of Melrose. If it's not a bevy of cookie cutter, polyester, primary colors, Real Housewivesesque maxi dresses and oversized -just plain over- leather, studded handbags, it's a dusty and prosaic, coastal desert landscape speckled with naught but jeans, hoodies, beanies and Old Navy tees. Enough of the desperately casual look already ... especially when I know darn good and well your hobo get-up cost far more than my weird, New Girl ensemble. Just because economic times are in a downturn, doesn't mean you have to look like a Dust Bowl survivor. Then again, they looked pretty good, considering. Heck, Ralph Lauren did an entire spring line around 1930s rural, migrant style. Certainly, my pal, Miss Hannah Hart, ghostdame of the 1930s herself, has a thought or two on the downgrade of American fashion. Big shock, right?

I'm not so stuffy as to head down George Will's "no blue jeans" road:

Today it is silly for Americans whose closest approximation of physical labor consists of  loading their bags of clubs into golf carts to go around in public dressed for driving steers up the Chisholm Trail to the railhead in Abilene.

True dat, George! I like the unapologetic snob in George Will and I appreciate, if not completely agree with, his further advice:

For men, sartorial good taste can be reduced to one rule: If Fred Astaire would not have worn it, don’t wear it. For women, substitute Grace Kelly.

I dig my Bebe jeans, bikini tops, sarongs and tattered espadrilles and played, Justin Timberlake dancer fedoras; but I get his frustration, even if it is a bit stiff. It's a reaction to a national theater of drudgery. Does everyone have to look like they're forever taking a break from cleaning their garage?

It's not tough, folks. Pulling on a skirt or a stylish blouse is as easy as pulling on those Kohl's stretch pants or Wal-Mart tee. Heels are easier, in fact, to slip on than tennies. You don't have to have crazy cabbage in the bank to dress up a bit, either. Recession has nothing to do with it; thrift stores are amazing places to scoop up an entire season's gear for less than a month's worth of Americanos. Even better if you're in an area where the hand-me-downs started out at Neiman Marcus, Anthropologie and Barney's. Go, Moi! Plus, eBay gives you a chance to be green a bit by recycling already produced clothing and it's a bonkers vintage marketplace! Yesterday, I was wearing Gucci sunglasses from Israel, a vintage dress from some island off Florida and my newest eBay find: a pair of patent leather Bebe slides I've dubbed my DitaCorsetFeet.

Mix it up, use your imagi-naaation. Toss a vintage, Maggie the Cat slip over those jeans or pair that frowsy tee with a pair of plaid, city shorts. Dolling up, even a little, is a fab way to whisper, "I respect you." to those throughout your day, that simply being around them is special enough to make an effort. It's also a fab way to grab a little self-respect. Now, there is still a handful of folk whom know how to don the goods: Dita Von Teese, Gwen Stefani, Donny Deutsch and Zooey Deschanel to start. Then, the Europeans ...

University professors. We love them, we loathe them: the personal stories, the idiosyncrasies, the elbow patches, the tenure, the old corduroys with rubber bands around the ankle, the power to crush souls and foster dreams, the tattered, Indiana Jones briefcases, the sit down bicycles with the tall orange flag. They have a cache about them, cushioned and propped up by years of extended study, education and a narrow, selective slice of exposure behind them. Oft so myopic in their scope, they can serve as one's personal guru, the know-all and be-all of Micronesian anthropology, nitrate film preservation or marine invertebrates; or, they can be the guy who has no idea who The Bluth Family is, who the Kia Hamsters are or the fact that the Haunted Mansion switches to a Nightmare Before Christmas overlay at Hallowe'en. Sad, really.

No worries for these citizens of the quad; they have the benefit of rarely, if ever, being told they're wrong. Similar to the Green Blazer of Augusta, university professors, even the lowly associate professors, are bequeathed the Cloak of Pomposity: a golden shroud of turgidity that protects the wearer from the slings and arrows of correction and opposing viewpoints. College offers great opportunity for intelligent, sharing discourse and confidence building that gives you a priceless carriage and posture of character that will serve you through life. It can also beat you over the head with a sock full of condescension and feelings of inadequacy, especially if you're a nervous and shy sixteen-year old doing her best just to find the right classrooms and fight all her instincts to hide in the library until graduation. Walt Disney said, "With every laugh, there should be a tear." Professors dole out both with great efficiency.

Be they wizards of political science, studio arts, cultural anthropolgy, graduate psychology, French architecture or, Heaven help you, English lit or Italian film theory, they can tell you the sky is plaid with a imperious certainty that leaves no room for debate and a strong desire to switch to STEM studies: Science, Technology, Engineering and Mathematics. Sure, those can be some of the most brazen and haughty of all species of professor; but numbers and science don't lie, usually can't be fudged and don't take kindly to touchy-feely, social interpretation. If it is, then it is; if it ain't, then it ain't.

Don't mistake me, I love the college professor-as-animal. Dear Old Dad spent more than a few years teaching undergrad and graduate psychology at Chapman University, University of LaVerne and University of Miami: student teacher there, I believe. Note to all freshmen, he loathed you most of all. "Always with an excuse," he'd say. "Hey, Dr. G, I'm like, so tired 'cause of last night.", or, "I have midterms for all my classes this week. Could I maybe, like, take yours later?" Charmers one and all, each more brilliant than the last. As kind, supportive and helpful as he and his elbow patches were, and are, he was also rarely wrong, and still is. Proffer an opposing political view? He'll smile, pat me on the head and say, "Where did I go wrong?"

Case in point wherein not all professors are always correct. My husband, many of you know him as the Viking, endured a veritable bumper crop of the cocksure whilst pursuing both his B.A. in Radio, TV and Film and his M.F.A. in Film and Television Production. No Flashbacks was a strict tenet of one screenwriting professor, a fellow whom had had some success writing for Little House on the Prairie. "Contrived, bad writing," according to Dr. D, was the hallmark of the flashback sequence. Years later, it's still one of the silliest rules of media writing either of us have ever encountered. To date, it brings us regular joy and laughter as we watch countless films and television productions which generously employ flashbacks. Thank you, Dr. D, for years of recurring and evergreen, hearty chuckles.

One final thought: pondering going to your fave prof with an idea that will change the world? You have the next gene splicer, the next data scraper, the next drive-through cataract eraser? You might want to fund your venture privately and then apply for that patent yourself. Depending on the institution, products and inventions, including intellectual property, nurtured under the auspices of a university staff and resources, may very well become property of the school in question. How do you think universities end up with so many patents? (Check with your own family attorney. This is not legal advise and I am not an attorney. I do know a bunch of good lawyer and judge jokes, though.) In the words of Donald Trump, Trust Your Instincts. Want an example? I have one. Wanna see it? Here it goes.

Picture it. Orange County, California. 1988. A young, energetic, tow-headed undergrad approaches his Communications Law professor wit

h an idea that would time shift television. The idea? Pre-record to an external hard drive everything coming into a television; play TV off the hard drive and skip the commercials. The would-be adviser in question claimed succinctly and with a sureness only a uni prof could posses, "They would never let that happen." Today, They call it Tivo. Trust your instincts.

Notably Flashback-based Films

Amadeus

Interview with the Vampire

Hugo

The Hangover

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

My Last Five Girlfriends

Riding in Cars with Boys

Hannah and Her Sisters

Forrest Gump

Slumdog Millionaire

Titanic

Moulin Rouge!

127 Hours

Ditto for TV

Doctor Who

How I Met Your Mother

Lost

Once Upon a Time

Family Guy

Poirot

Highlander

Clearly, there are scads of others fine, and poor, examples: vintage as well as contemporary. Hit me back with your fave flashbacks!

Looking for more film and TV talk from Moi? From Cecil B. DeMille to Bob's Burgers, I dig it and love to write about it. Hop on the H-town Celluloid Express and head to JennyPop's Film and TV Review tab!