Jennifer Susannah Devore's Blog, page 19

Tina Fey, Steve Martin, Homer Simpson + Termite Stick = Funny? Oh, I Think So!

Ciao, dolls! Is it time for the Oscars, yet? I’m dying to see if my airy predictions for the 84th Annual Academy Awards come to fruition this year. I’ve lost a few days hither and thither, so I’m a bit behind the grind … what a nutty few weeks! I’ve been in the brutal business of changing caves here in San Diego’s Hotel del Coronado.

I figure eighty years is long enough in one room; why not upgrade? I may not have the ability to egress the grounds of the hotel, not without great energy levels and even then only for short periods, but I can certainly scuttle about the premises all my pretty head likes. Even so, even for a ghostie girl, moving can be a total bear. I’ve amassed a swell collection of books, objets, comics, cocktail bags and stilletos since the 1930s and that’s a lot of shlock to schlepp when one can’t hire Mayflower to shift it. I’ve relocated myself to a Resort Suite in The Del’s Ocean Tower: 900 square feet, honor bar and a full ocean view. Despite the guests currently in my room, it’s really much roomier than my usually vacant turret room – mostly used for hotel storage- I’d previously enjoyed. Plus, it’s a little less Victorian and a bit more contemporary in style. If I tire of it, I can move … in eighty more years. Murder! I tell ya, it warn’t easy!

 

Inspector Hannah and the Curious Mystery of the Poe Toaster

Ciao, babies! It’s winter in San Diego and whilst we’ve got sheer aces weather right now, it’s still winter. That means the Hotel Del is relatively quiet and I’ve got cabin fever of the Muppet Treasure Island degree. Plus, that mook Edward the elevator operator has proved completely useless where elevator pranks are concerned. What a wheat!

Despite the sunshine and good cheer, it’s still winter: too warm to don my fur-trimmed capes, not warm enough to wear those pretty Hawaiian dresses that Dr. Harvey & Hildy sent me. (By the by, I did find me a dead girl, poor thing, and -pouf!- I can now wear my Maui Zowies.) Winter is, however, much as those early New England settlers learned, an excellent time to indulge one’s indoor skills: sewing, reading, sketching, snuggling and the like. Check or cash, baby? Wink-wink! Of course, when one is a ghostie and resides in a vast hotel with a moderate clime and a great poolside bar, there really is only one activity to beset the winter doldrums: preparing to solve a mystery!

Now, maybe I’m keen to snoop out a good caper because I watch far too many mystery series, mostly British. The Brits know how to produce a series of feature film quality, BAFTA-worthy performances from what I assume are the only nine mystery actors in the U.K. and how to expose a murder scene without giving the viewer what could be a sneak peek of the latest Saw incarnation. Subtlety speaks volumes, all you GFX Joes at CSI and NCIS: just a note. Midsomer Murders, Inspector Lewis, Rosemary & Thyme, Inspector Lynley Mysteries, Cadfael, Poirot (Set in 1930s London, so natch it’s my fave!) top my Netflix queue. Well, today is Edgar Allen Poe’s birthday and, Daddy-O, is there ever a mystery or two involved with that fellow! The Mystery of the Poe Toaster is my latest mindboggler.


A Boston baby like  me, Edgar Allen Perry was born in Beantown, but then gad about a bit: London, New York, Philly, Baltimore and Richmond to name a few stops. He even did a U.S. Army stint at Fort Monroe in Virgina as artillery Sgt. Major Edgar A. Perry, until he decided the military life wasn’t for him and began showing up on the base’s parade field wearing little other than his hat and angling for a discharge. Whilst there though, he wrote The Cask of Amontillado: a tale set in Vague Europe and based on the true ghost story of a Virginia soldier walled up alive in abandoned stone building. Echoes of such a horrific end make themselves heard in The Black Cat, as well. Yikes! Fort Monroe historians say folks still claim to see Poe’s spirit sitting at a table and writing his stories.

Alas, finally during an 1849 autumnal visit to Baltimore, the man who would come to be recognized as the father of the modern detective tale, with The Murders in the Rue Morgue, died eerily prophetically, under circumstances as mysterious as if prescribed by his own, pale hand. Speculation on his death at age forty runs the gamut from rabies to murder.

Poe’s enigmatic departure took him from this realm and deposited him into mine. No, I’ve yet to meet him, but do have a pally in Baltimore who says she once saw him at the Barnes & Noble on the harbor, flipping through a Calvin and Hobbes comic book and chuckling. Years after he passed on, a secret admirer wafted into the B’more moonlight and began a perplexing proffering to the writer: a half-bottle of cognac and three roses. Lain respectfully by a disguised devotee, swathed all in black, a white scarf and a wide-brimmed hat, Poe’s original grave site at Westminster Hall has silently received the kindly gifts each birthday. Reported sightings of the booze and its bearer date back to my day in the 1930s. Since the 1940s, however, the mystery has ensued annually on the original Goth’s birthday, come 12:00 midnight on January 19th without fail … until 2010 when the admirer was a no-show for the first time. Since then, fans, readers, devotees and beautiful goths have pulled college-worthy all-nighters at the grave site, waiting for the man in the wide-brimmed hat to lay down his bouteille et fleurs, according to Jeff Jerome, curator of Poe House and Museum: a row house situated on Amity Street in Baltimore and cared for under the auspices of the Edgar Allen Poe Society of Baltimore. In the wee hours of Poe’s 203rd birthday, after seeing no sign of the hatted gifter for a third year, fans have decided to let go of the vigil. “It’s over with,” said Jerome.

It has been speculated that there could be copycats to come; many say that’s a shame. Yet, ponder this, kittens. Maybe there had been copycats or even generational hand-overs in decades past. If no one has ever known the true identity, how could we know for certain it’s been the same man, or woman, all along? Maybe there will be copycats; yet in the end it’s not a shame, not by a long shot. Doesn’t it just mean that generations and generations later he’s still thought of reverently? For my part, I hope someone continues the tradition. Horsefeathers! Maybe I’ll do it! Who cares who does it? Don’t we all want to be remembered after we pass on “to the light”? Writers especially! Show me a writer whom doesn’t long, secretly or not so secretly, to be regaled for ages after their death and I’ll show you a great big fibber … with the exception of Franz Kafka.

I had a secret admirer once. After the Ida Lupino incident, some sweet San Diego Sugar Daddy left me gorgeous handbags and beaded purses outside my hotel room door for near forty years. It got kind of creepy, but I still have all the bags and don’t they make for a fabulous collection?! Most all of ‘em are spiffy Whiting & Davis beauties! Eat your heart out, Paris, Eva and Shakira! I never knew who he was and like the 30 Rock episode where Jenna Maroney’s stalker ceases his harangues, I did miss the attention, and the bags, once he stopped. Oh, well. Maybe some new admirer will begin gifting me goodies. Heck, someone already gave Lucy and me Kindles. Go ahead, cats, send me something! Send me a postcard, in fact! Let me know who’s reading my gum-flapping and send it to:

Miss Hannah Hart, gohstdame
c/o Hotel del Coronado
1500 Orange Avenue
Coronado, CA 92118

Now you’re on the trolley!

In the waning days of January, the days are getting a tad longer here. Still, Dr. Lucy and I are  mighty bored at The Del. After we work out the Poe mystery for awhile, we have a new adventure planned. We’re thinking about heading to Antarctica! Marine biologists have found ghost octopi! Tell me Dr. Lucy and Onslow aren’t itching to check out this wild snow show!  Zowie!

By the by, the city of Baltimore, Maryland has recently cut all funding to the Poe House and Museum. If you find this as great a travesty as I do and want to make a donation, large or small, to keep the place running past this summer of 2012, send it along to Jeff Jerome himself and tell him Hannah Hart sent you!

Abyssinia, cats!

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Making Comic Books Respectable: You’re a Good Man, Richard Alf!

Originally published at GoodToBeAGeek.com, by Miss Hannah Hart, ghostdame of the Hotel del Coronado, on January 13, 2K12.

Ain’t no place nobby like San Diego, babies! I knew it when I transplanted from Boston during Prohibition, Lucky Lindy knew it when he test flew the Spirit of St. Louis here before making tracks for Paris and a geeky teen named Richard Alf knew it when he convinced fellow geek Sheldon Dorf from Michigan, not to mention Ray Bradbury, that America’s Finest City could also be America’s Comic City.

Not only does this swell apple have the keenest weather anywhere on this dizzy planet, but it’s also got a vibe that attracts, nay welcomes, the most creative, odd and inventive of funky souls. Whether you’re a tech industry torpedo, a bio-tech wiz, a jazzin’ musician, a visual artist, a jolly good writer or just all-around loose cannon, San Diego is waiting for you with open arms! Goths, geeks, punks, dorks, goobs, gamers, nerds, hippies, preppies, fashionistas, vintagistas, dancers, pin-ups, skaters, singers, slackers, surfers (I dig those Carlsbad surfers, I must say. Zowie!) and ghosties alike … San Diego makes room in its sunny and mild heart for all. Even America’s Mom lives in America’s City: Marion Ross of Happy Days, a.k.a. Mrs. Cunningham lives the quiet life on one of our crazy-beautiful beaches. What more comforting arms than that of Mrs. C? Been thinking about kissing off your burg and heading for the the sparkling limelight of L.A.? Skip it. Try San Diego: cleaner water, better coffee, snazzier bars and sunnier folk. Plus, we S.D. girls are plenty friendly and tend more toward the au naturel look. Ya keen?

So, what better place to invite all the geeks, the world over, to the biggest geek fest ever? San Diego Comic-Con is back in town, kids! I get myself to Comic-Con every year; being a ghostie girl, that's easy beans. In fact, I’ve been there since the first big event in 1970 when one Richard Alf, Kearney High Schooler and a Detroit-transplant named Sheldon Dorf, after meeting via one of Alf’s regular ads in the back of Marvel comics to buy and sell comic books out of his parents’ garage, set up in town at the U.S. Grant Hotel: first attendees included sci-fi writer Ray Bradbury and comic book artist Jack Kirby.


Initially dubbed San Diego’s Golden State Comic-Con, this three-day gathering was the birth of what would eventually become the wildly costumed, Hollywood-frenzied, world-media covered, global wingding more in line, business-wise, with France’s MIP and MIPCOM media conventions than a community garage sale and meet-up for comic geeks and their wares. Later knighted San Diego Comic-Con International , it and our fair city are now synonymous with comic geeks, fantasy and wicked hot cosplay the world over. They also now produce SDCC's baby sister: WonderCon. Tim Burton and Steven Spielberg may not have been at the earliest shows, but I was!

I did a brief fly-by the year Alf took advantage of his matriculation as a U.C.S.D. music student and moved the Con to campus, even renting dorm rooms to attendees for “discounted rates”. Murder!  What a keen kid! No wonder he ended up in advertising and stocks. Tell me Campus Con wasn’t bonkers! Comic dorks, college scrubs and, unfortunately for their study needs, a meek Montessori group found themselves housed alongside each other in cramped quarters one week back in the early ’70s. Since then, if it’s a biotech dork dressed like The Flash or a college kitten dressed like a hot preschooler, it must be summertime in San Diego.

Even though Alf and his fellow founders delved into other passions throughout the years, Comic-Con would remain cognizant of its nexus. Savvy? At the 2009 show, Richard Alf, Mike Towry, Sheldon Dorf and Ken Kreuger were saluted and honoured by Comic-Con International. Eerily, all but Towry have now since passed away; the honours came too late and none too soon. San Diego State University had even been in the midst of researching the phenomenon that is SDCC and talking with Alf and Towry about their early days for S.D.S.U.’s Comic-Con Tales when Alf took ill.

Now, while I'd never met Richard Alf personally, I’d certainly seen him about town on occasion. Heck, I’ve been here since the 1930s; I’ve seen everyone on occasion. Plus, no one could miss those Central Casting, nerd glasses and beaming smile of the 6’6″ Alf! Last year, just prior to the commencement of the 2011 Con, while checking out all the pre-show jitters around town, I buzzed a dedication ceremony at the airport for San Diego’s newest tribute to the visionary mind. Running gleefully along San Diego International Airport’s pedestrian walkway hangs a mural titled The Sky’s the Limit, dedicated to the city’s aviation and cartooning history. Sweet kazoo, a city that appreciates animation! Snoopy, as the Red Baron, and Shel Dorf himself grace the mural’s colourful, historical tale. Who was there to help commemorate this embrace of flight and funny? Richard Alf and Mike Towry themselves.

By the way, babies, I wish I’d had the ability to shutterbug as easily over the decades as you do today. Luckily for all of us, there were folks who did have such abilities and I refer you to the Richard Alf memorial website brought to you by the pips at The Museum of Modern Mythology and Pop Culture. You'll find loads of snazzy snaps of the first Comic-Con Souvenir Book, the legendary Alf V-dub Bug and keen snaps of young Richard, Mike, Shel and more.

You’re a good man, Richard Alf. Rest in peace. Last year's Comic-Con was just wild! This year's is looking even finer than that! Thank you, Mr. Alf.


By the by, you can read Jennifer Devore’s (Hannah's alter ego and a Comic-Con geek of the first level) 2010 SDCC Souvenir Book article on Peanuts (cited by TIME magazine, no less!) and her 2012 article on Tarzan (which garnered her a Meet & Greet with Dr. Jane Goodall!).


Abyssinia, cats!

Hannah Hart, ghostdame of The Del’s fave places to haunt online? JennyPop.net amazon.com/author/jenniferdevore and @JennyPopNet

Happy Hanukkah, Merry Christmas and Mele Kalikimaka to All!

For we whom are 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.

��

Photos: JSDevore (SoCal)

Merry Merry to All!

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

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 Gen. 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, a previous December post was a birthday greeting to auteur, Mr. Woody Allen. Now, with another December birthday, 'tis the anniversary of the birth of one Walter Elias Disney, one of those few on my reluctant heroes list.

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, The Darlings of Orange County. Allow me this opportunity to offer up a Hail Fellow, Well Met! to the man from Kansas City, as well as to treat those of you whom have yet to read my Darlings.


Without further ado, a wee excerpt from The Darlings of Orange County (all rights reserved):


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.


[image error]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 20th 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.

"The Darlings of Orange County" (title and text) is property of Jennifer Susannah Devore and KIMedia, LLC. Excerpt may be shared digitally for entertainment,  non-commercial purposes only and may not be reprinted in analog format or sold in any format, digital, analog or otherwise.

Happy Birthday, Mr. Disney!

(Wondering what the squirrel reference is in the caption above? Why, Jennifer Susannah Devore's Savannah of Williamsburg series of books!)

 

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Jack and Sally: An Irregular Ode to Disney's Halloween Time

 

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.

 

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

All photos by Loren Javier

Valentines für Herr Ichabod

 

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The most lovely Valentines of all: doggy Valentines' Day cards, lovingly-crafted and sent to the author, Jennifer Susannah Devore, two years ago upon the passing of her dearest Ichabod Wolfgang Crane Devore, the inspiration for Herr Ichabod DenVries in the Savannah Series.

Exuberant Savannah of Williamsburg readers, especially Book I, the charming students of Ms. Katleen  Fitzpatrick's fourth-grade class at Loma Vista Elementary School in Tustin, California created these gorgeous cards. It took Jennifer a few days to be able to open the cards and read them. Once she did, the tears and smiles did flow. Thank you, children!

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A Geek's Thanksgiving: Thankful for TV, Tofurkey and Snoopy

I am not ready for Christmas. Ergo, please, retailers and marketing squads, just chill and give us a few weeks of the orange-and-brown before the red-and-green arrives with its proverbial bells jingling. Now, please, do not misread me ... I adore Christmas, adore it! Not only was I raised in a home with consistently luxurious, department store-/magazine-quality decor and a year-round Christmas tree in our mountain cabin, but Christmas Day usually meant dinner at Disneyland. I also spent six years living in Colonial Williamsburg and, trust me, there is nothing much more festive than a Disney Christmas or a Colonial Christmas, except maybe a Parisian Noel. All that aside, I need some time to prepare: spiritually and sartorially.

Nothing is more glorious than an autumn day so perfect it is of filmic proportions: like the art department hand-painted every leaf the perfect shade of red, sprinkled Georgian window panes with the just the right amount of raindrops and yellow gels were placed on all the interior lighting, making a university coffeehouse more like Mormor's Nordic Kitchen, alive with the smell of espresso and nutmeg. This is generally best experienced in Annapolis, Yarmouth, or Colonial Williamsburg.

I need time to enjoy all of this, usually in my tweeds and camel overcoats , before the winter-white cashmere sweaters and red Mary Janes come out of hiding. I need time to order pumpkin harvest bisque and a Guinness in a pub before truffles and pancake ice-topped martinis become apres-Christmas shopping de rigueur; before dear Mormor puts out her Santa-head sugar cookies; and, before Starbucks forces its red-cup cheer on me ... the day after Hallowe'en! J'accuse, Starbucks ... you, of all folks, should appreciate autumn for its leisurely solace.

Now, I cherish, nearly . I await the legendary Pumpkin Spice Latte (PSL) all year long; yet, it's all so short-lived, hidden behind the red-cup brigade. Design a Thanksgiving cup, Sbux, if you please: tobacco background with mustard-yellow and brick-red swirls steaming up the cup and all topped off with a turkey silhouette. Ahh, yesss, I can see it now. Well done, me!

In fact, it is somewhat odd, this Thanksgiving penchant of mine, considering the fact that I am a vegetarian (since about the age of fifteen) and a Native American: 1/8 Choctaw ... so, I may make all the "Feather, not dot" and "Casino, not convenience store" jokes I want. Oh, don't get your p.c. panties in a proverbial bunch. I'll bet there was a joke around some dinner table during Diwali that would have offended me, had I known of it. Let's all have a sense of humour, shall we?

Apropos to annoying political correctness, similar to Wednesday Addams in Addams Family Values or Bobby Hill in King of the Hill's "Spin the Choice" I have certainly been a teenaged, Thanksgiving pain-in-the-ass. As a young punk I oft protested the massacre of Native Americans, the buffalo and the turkeys, all from the courageous seat of a warm and comfortable, upper-middle-class dining room, free of any consequence other than eye-rolls served up alongside King's Hawaiian rolls. These mild, semi-public assertions were usually manifested via either wardrobe choices (Ralph Lauren southwestern-motif dress, turquoise jewelry, fringed Frye boots), pouting and/or preaching (the year I went veggie), or making my own, authentic succotash (vile disaster). Of course, as the turkey goes, nothing has chilled my tenacity there. I have not partaken in a Thanksgiving turkey or ham since my early teens. To that end, I also will not break a wishbone; the concept makes me shudder.

In the end, I have happily come to realize that other people's habits are not my concern; it is awfully pompous of me to declare anything at a family holiday, however glossy my hair may be that day. I eat my Tofurkey (Thanks, Mom!!) as others eat their trusting bird and large, pink, farm animal with the suspected I.Q. of a human six year-old and we all share copious amounts of wine, candied yams, coffee and laughs. This is as far as I will go with the sappy, obligatory "I am thankful for ... " liturgy. I am most thankful for the fact that I neither need nor care to share my deepest and most emotional Thanksgiving musings. My beloveds and I already know the score and it need not be spake thusly.

Oh, wait a minute, I am thankful for one thing I feel I must share with the World. I am Thankful for television! Well, television and film: visual media in general. To wit, as I hope I helped a few lost souls find their way through the Hallowe'en television mist, I humbly offer a Tofurkey platter piled high with moist and steamy media goodness. Happy Tofurkey Day, America!!

 

Fave Thanksgiving TV Episodes!

King of the Hill "Spin the Choice"

Bob's Burgers "An Indecent Thanksgiving Proposal"

The Simpsons "Bart vs. Thanksgiving"

South Park "A History Channel Thanksgiving"

Frasier "A Lilith Thanksgiving"

Northern Exposure "Thanksgiving"

Little House on the Prairie "The Little House Years: Part I"

American Dad "There Will Be Bad Blood"

Outsourced "Temporary Monsanity"

Cheers "Thanksgiving Orphans"

Rugrats "The Turkey Who Came to Dinner"

Scrubs "My Day Off"

Seinfeld "The Mom and Pop Store"

The Bob Newhart Show "Over the River and Through the Woods"

WKRP in Cincinnati "Turkeys Away"

Friends Any Thanksgiving episode ...

"The One With the Rumor"

"The One With All the Thanksgivings"

"The One With Chandler in a Box"

"The One With the Late Thanksgiving"

"The One With Rachel's Other Sister"

"The One Where Ross Got High"

"The One Where Chandler Doesn't Like Dogs"

"The One Where Underdog Gets Away"

"The One With the List"

"The One With the Football"

 

Fave Thanksgiving Films!

A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving

Garfield's Thanksgiving

Hannah and Her Sisters

Home for the Holidays

Martha Stewart Holidays: Classic Thanksgiving

An Old-fashioned Thanksgiving

Addams Family Values ("The Turkey Song")

 

"I don't think watching TV was the pilgrims' original intent on Thanksgiving."

-Diane Chambers, Cheers, "Thanksgiving Orphans"

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The One All About Thanksgiving or, My People Call it Maize

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I am not ready for Christmas. Ergo, please, retailers and marketing squads, just chill and give us a few weeks of the orange-and-brown before the red-and-green arrives with its proverbial bells jingling. Now, please, do not misread me ... I adore Christmas, adore it! Not only was I raised in a home with consistently luxurious, department store-/magazine-quality decor and a year-round Christmas tree in our mountain cabin, but Christmas Day usually meant dinner at Disneyland. I also spent six years living in Colonial Williamsburg and, trust me, there is nothing much more festive than a Disney Christmas or a Colonial Christmas, except maybe a Parisian Noel. All that aside, I need some time to prepare: spiritually and sartorially.

Nothing is more glorious than an autumn day so perfect it is of filmic proportions: like the art department hand-painted every leaf the perfect shade of red, sprinkled Georgian window panes with the just the right amount of raindrops and yellow gels were placed on all the interior lighting, making a university coffeehouse more like Mormor's Nordic Kitchen, alive with the smell of espresso and nutmeg. This is generally best experienced in Annapolis, MD, Yarmouth, ME or Williamsburg, VA.

I need time to enjoy all of this, usually in my tweeds and camel overcoats , before the winter-white cashmere sweaters and red Mary Janes come out of hiding. I need time to order pumpkin harvest bisque and a Guinness in a pub before truffles and pancake ice-topped martinis become apres-Christmas shopping de rigueur; before dear Mormor puts out her Santa-head sugar cookies; and, before Starbucks forces its red-cup cheer on me ... the day after Hallowe'en! J'accuse, Starbucks ... you, of all folks, should appreciate autumn for its leisurely solace.

Now, I cherish, nearly red-cup brigade. Design a Thanksgiving cup, Sbux, if you please: tobacco background with mustard-yellow and brick-red swirls steaming up the cup and all topped off with a turkey silhouette. Ahh, yesss, I can see it now. Well done, me!

In fact, it is somewhat odd, this Thanksgiving penchant of mine, considering the fact that I am a vegetarian (since about the age of fifteen) and a Native American: 1/8 Choctaw ... so, I can make all the "Feather, not dot" & "Casino, not convenience store" jokes I want ... except, I apologize to the other Indians I may have just smeared. Then again, I'll bet there was a joke around some dinner table during Diwali that would have offended me, had I known of it. Let's all have a sense of humour, shall we?

Similar to Bobby Hill in one of my fave Thanksgiving episodes of King of the Hill, I have had the odd year hither and thither when I decided to protest the massacre of my people and the turkeys. These mild, public assertions were usually manifested in either wardrobe (maybe a Ralph Lauren dress, turquoise jewelry and fringed boots.) to simply pouting and preaching (The year I went veggie), to making my own authentic succotash (Disaster: I do not cook and the whole family told me how very, very awful it was.) Of course, as the turkey goes, there is nothing mild about that in my dedication. I do not eat meat and have not partaken in a Thanksgiving turkey or ham since my early teens. To that end, I also will not break a wishbone; the concept makes me shudder.

In the end, I have happily come to realize that other people's habits are not my concern (Well, except the massacre and methodical extermination and culling of my people.) and it is awfully pompous of me to declare anything at a family holiday, however glossy my hair may be that day. I eat my Tofurkey (Thanks, Mom!!) as others eat their trusting bird and large, pink, farm animal with the suspected I.Q. of a human six year-old and we all share copious amounts of wine, candied yams, coffee and laughs. This is as far as I will go with the sappy, obligatory "I am thankful for ... " liturgy. I am most thankful for the fact that I neither need nor care to share my deepest and most emotional Thanksgiving musings. My beloveds and I already know the score and it need not be spake thusly.

Oh, wait a minute, I am thankful for one thing I feel I must share with the World. I am Thankful for television! Well, television and film: visual media in general. To wit, as I hope I helped a few lost souls find their way through the Hallowe'en television mist, I humbly offer a Tofurkey platter piled high with moist and steamy media goodness. Happy Tofurkey Day, Everyone!!

 

Best Thanksgiving TV Episodes!

King of the Hill "Spin the Choice"

South Park "A History Channel Thanksgiving"

Northern Exposure "Thanksgiving"

Little House on the Prairie "The Little House Years: Part I"

American Dad "There Will Be Bad Blood"

Outsourced "Temporary Monsanity"

Cheers "Thanksgiving Orphans"

Rugrats "The Turkey Who Came to Dinner"

Scrubs "My Day Off"

Seinfeld "The Mom and Pop Store"

The Bob Newhart Show "Over the River and Through the Woods"

WKRP in Cincinnati "Turkeys Away"

Friends Any Thanksgiving episode ...

"The One With the Rumor"

"The One With All the Thanksgivings"

"The One With Chandler in a Box"

"The One With the Late Thanksgiving"

"The One With Rachel's Other Sister"

"The One Where Ross Got High"

"The One Where Chandler Doesn't Like Dogs"

"The One Where Underdog Gets Away"

"The One With the List"

"The One With the Football"

 

Best Thanksgiving Films!

A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving

Garfield's Thanksgiving

Hannah and Her Sisters

Home for the Holidays

Martha Stewart Holidays: Classic Thanksgiving

An Old-fashioned Thanksgiving

Addams Family Values ("The Turkey Song", as seen above)

 

"I don't think watching TV was the pilgrims' original intent on Thanksgiving."

-Diane Chambers, Cheers, "Thanksgiving Orphans"

Savannah Book I, II, III and DOC

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