As I have written time and time again, I oft enjoy indulging in self-pity where the proverbial costuming monkey on my back is concerned. True, it's fun to be the Zooey Deschanel "New Girl" of most gatherings, minus the frequent outbursts of song. 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.

Last 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 brother-in-law, a.k.a. Captain Maurice Bloodstone or, for last Hallowe'en, Ellis Harwood, Victorian undertaker; and my sister-in-law, a.k.a. , Dr. Lucy Devereaux, cohort of Hannah Hart, ghostdame of the Hotel del Coronado.

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.

Now, in excited anticipation of 2013 Hallowe'en activities, I begin the annual, autumnal obsession of What to Wear? I need two costumes this year: one for a family trip to Salem, MA and a stay at the famed Hawthorne Hotel; one for another Wine Country bash. Bellatrix might work nicely for Salem: pretty apropos and family-friendly. Yet, for Napa? IDK. I'm toying with Eva, the Indian-captive prostitute-turned-prairie wife from AMC's "Hell on Wheels". After all, I do have my very own Mr. Swede. I'm open to suggestions, too.

As I go through last year's Gallery of Magick Reflections, I think to myself, "Magnolia, boy did your mother do numbers on you!".

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Learn more about Halloween Time at The Spookiest Place on Earth!

All photos by Loren Javier

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

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

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

My Viking: No, they don't. Hey, maybe that should be your next blog post.

A recent discourse of somewhat heated debate, the suggestion indeed made sense. I've been on a perpetual Disney mission since I could talk, so why not entreat anyone I can to experience the magnificent transformation of The Happiest Place on Earth into The Spookiest Place on Earth: Disneyland's Halloween Time?!

I write specifically of the Disneyland Resort in Anaheim, California. The entire park gets a bedeviling, magical, spooky, pumpkin-bedecked makeover. Nyquil trip-worthy, giant Mickey, Minnie, Donald and Goofy Jack O'Lanterns greet you at the main gate and welcome you into a fall fantasy. 'Tis best to go at night. It is still a tad warm here in sunny California 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 to the Park. October 1st temp this year? 100 degrees in Anaheim! Of course, maybe that's why we SoCal Disney dorks love Halloween Time so much. Disney is fantasy, after all. Weather fantasy is a beautiful thing. You know my thoughts on too much summer!

From Main Street's straw-adorned gas lampposts to Space Mountain's surprisingly heart-stopping Ghost Galaxy (I screamed with such true terror, without the ability to ever catch my breath in between banshee calls, I exited with a monster headache and a shredded, sore throat. Gnarly, awesome fun!), everything is infused with an orange-and-gold, haystacks-and-scarecrows, SpiderCider n' pumpkin muffin kind of elan. Even the popcorn boxes are anew with Gothic imagery. You'll find ghostly and spooky, seasonal offerings from Jack O'Lantern lollipop cakes at the Jolly Holiday Bakery Café on Main Street, to Jack Skellington hoodies and studded belts throughout New Orleans Square.

The Haunted Mansion, above all, receives a dressing up one simply must see in person. Whilst divine and inspiring on its most average day, the manse brings new awe to the darkly-humoured and sartorially gothic flutterbys whom tend to use the manor less as an amusement park ride and more as an interior design sketchbook. September through January, 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. 'Tis a Samhain switch that would make even Kafka proud: creepy crawlies, existential confusion, brooding philosophes and all. The chateau has been overtaken and rechristened Haunted Mansion Holiday here in Anna's House (Anaheim) and Haunted Mansion Holiday Nightmare at Tokyo Disneyland for my Japanese pals, Yoshiko, Akiko and Aii. Konnichiwa, guys!

Jack and Sally, Zero, 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. Doom Buggies carry Nightmare devotees whom will not only spy favourite replications and vignettes from the holiday mainstay film, but whom will 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. (Moi? I found a creepy Christmas cadeau laid out and tagged For: Jennifer!) Haven't had a chance to get inside, yet? No worries. Allow Moi to offer a wee Holiday Haunted Mansion slideshow!

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 and even more fortunate to be an annual passholder, get thee to The Spookiest Place on Earth forthwith. Plan on long lines, especially at Space Mountain's Ghost Galaxy and The Haunted Mansion, buy some popcorn to kill time and take some pictures whilst you wait. I do! Pirates of the Caribbean is usually a pretty mellow wait and though it's not got a Hallowe'en rework, it's still pirates. You have to do pirates for Hallowe'en!

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-price to your new pass 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. (Fair warning: If you plan to have a pass for the long term, it is best to renew your pass every year, prior to the expiration date. You can upgrade easily, with a slightly higher, modified, monthly fee; but there are often renewal discounts. Also, you maintain your monthly debits, keeping cost management of the pass pretty regular, minus upgrade costs. If it expires, even by a day, you will be required to buy anew; that means a one-day ticket price/down payment of about $80.00.)

If you do have a pass, besides the useful 10% to 20% dining and merchandise discounts you'll receive, depending on the pass, you'll get $18.00 off most nights to Mickey's Halloween Party, excepting Oct. 30th & 31st. What? You don't know of Mickey's Halloween Party?! It's a special, ticketed event ($54.00-$69.00) throughout the month of October. The park closes early to make way for a fab, private-ish party! You may dress up if you like (within guidelines) and experience a whole new Hallowe'en overlay throughout the place: a spooky, blue, ghostly Mark Twain and Pirate Ship Columbia drift atop the fog-laden Rivers of America; costumed Disney characters pose for pictures; safe and healthy trick-or-treating stations await your little ones; and Halloween Screams Fireworks explode over a multi-hued Sleeping Beauty's Castle! Dates are plentiful, but tickets sell out fast! Learn more here: Mickey's Halloween Party!

Fun fact? Did you know The Haunted Mansion opened on my birthday when I was just a wee, wailing babe? That might explain an existential thing or two!

Hurry back and don't forget to bring your, death certificate. There's always room for one more.

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All slideshow Disneyland photos courtesy of fellow Disney dork, Loren Javier

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

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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?)

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!

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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 for ideas.

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.

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 (Yes, I have a sizable doll collection, mostly Barbies.) and I need a baroque doll (which I do have, yet can't get to easily) 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. (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.

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.

Any ideas?

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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.

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.

When Nirvana Turns: Smells Like Old Applebee's

The end of the World has been heralded and bandied about for months now, mostly amongst hyper-religious fundamentals, the superstitious and the odd (I do mean odd.) guest on late-night radio's Coast-to-Coast with George Noory: May 21st, they say. I figure if it does happen, I'm truly fine with it because in my mind, it already happened at an undisclosed Applebee's somewhere in Southern California. It happened before I knew what hit me; the good thing is I was very, very okay with it and pleased with where I was ... spiritually, if not gastronomically.

For those of you whom follow me regularly, especially in Poland, Germany and Norway lately (odd, but awesome ... Thank you!), you know well how I love the photographs. Apropos to this post ... I wish I had some photographs of him, for her. I hope the following suffices as a verbal pictorial.

Happy campers "were more socially active, attended more religious services, voted more and read a newspaper more often than their less-chipper counterparts." -Jeanna Bryner, senior writer, LiveScience.com

After a thirty-plus-year study by the National Opinion Research Center at the University of Chicago, scientists discovered that out of their 30,000 test subjects, the unhappiest of folks watched 30% more television than their happier counterparts: 19 vs. 25 hrs./day. I can totally see this being true, for some. Knowing a few real downer-types, they do tend to cite immersing themselves in the most vapid of viewing to make their lives simpler. "I don't want to have to think, just laugh at stupid stuff," tends to be the default answer. That being said, I have to say that, like with most things, I'm the anomaly and I'd like to offer you just a glimpse of my orgiastic media consumption habits.