Jennifer Susannah Devore's Blog, page 20

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Welcome, Bienvenue, Wilkommen, Ciao, Cheers and Alooooha! Authoress Jennifer Susannah Devore and all her alter egos -Savannah of Williamsburg, all The Darlings of Orange County, Miss Hannah Hart- have launched their new website! Jennypop.net!

Jennypop.net is a comprehensive content site: media, eCommerce, RSS feeds, and funky, fab links to fave blogs, bands, fashion, media, tech, politics, entertainment and more. Check back often, as JennyPop has just begun! She'll be updating and adding content regularly: everything from current blog posts, geek articles, television and film reviews to the occasional throw-back of ancient articles, prose and poetry from her dusty pirate trunk of drivel.

 

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With enough goodies to keep you from being bored wherever you are, JennyPop is tantalizing enough to keep you coming back for more. Want archived content? Pop a keyword into PopSearch and your wish is her command.

Savannah of Williamsburg: fan pages, FB-link, reviews, reader comments
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Miss Hannah Hart, ghostdame of the Hotel del Coronado: snippy, haunting musings from The Del's only 1934 ghostdame
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Merry Christmas, Cameramen ... or, Take the Cameraman's Soul!

Cameramen are people, too … mostly. For full disclosure, I have worked with a few real bastards and prima donnas over the years. Take note that those in the accompanying tropical photos here are not said-bastards et al. In fact, the dudes highlighted herein were jovial team players and damn fine fellows with whom to share a card game or two and a few pitchers of margaritas after a day of shooting in the scorching sun on the Sea of Cortez. This posting is dedicated to the likes of these guys. Still, even the bastardi deserve kudos for gigs heartily done and, at the very least, not to have their souls offered up to Charlie, Satan's Little Helper.(Note: this does not apply to most sound guys I've known. Take 'em, Charlie.)

Cameramen are our fourth wall, the unseen barrier holding up the screen and separating us comfortably from the action we so crave to join, but only to a safe degree. Cameramen are never seen, but are back-and-center of the action, highlighting the achievements, exhilaration, danger, taboos and often the stupidity, of the subject at-hand. Cameramen are our messengers, our free press delivering all matter of information to us: desirable, necessary, banal, cringe-worthy, vital and historic. They are our transference mechanisms.

Remember all the early, black-and-white Pathé footage of the fin-de-19ième Siècle (end-of-the-19thCentury) and well into the 20th? (Aside: if you just thought to yourself, "No, I wasn't born then ... slap yourself. Don't be part of the Obtuse Generation. I wasn't born in 1890 either; yet, I know who Benjamin Disraeli and Queen Vic are. None of us were born when W.A. Mozart, D.W. Griffith or Th. Jefferson were doing their thing, but we know about them ... at least, you should. I shudder to think how many heads may be being scratched at the moment.)

 

 

Back to Pathé (1896): the pioneering French entertainment company that produced newsreels from 1910 well into the '70s, often shown in movie theaters before the feature began. Newsreels, like today's broadcasts, ran the gamut from feel-good puff pieces to current events and world politics. Along with the silent Fox News Service (1919) and Fox Movietone (1927), Pathé also covered travel and human-interest stories: this mountaineer scaling Mount Everest alone; that archaeologist crawling through the tunnels of Egyptian pyramids and tombs; scratchy, dusty, Blitzkrieged coverage of World War II Europe. More recently, remember the NBC Nightly News of the 1960s and '70s and their full-colour, swampy horror of the VietNam War? Today's embedded photojournalists covering Afghanistan and Iran bring home the grit and determination of a sandblasted war front.

Think on this, then: for every underfoot shot of that 1915 Everest mountaineer, seeing only the crampons of his shoes as he leaps over an icy crevasse; for every dark, claustrophobic shot of those newly discovered Egyptian catacombs during the Tutankhamun Craze of the '20s; for every up-close and personal account of a bombed-out and crumbling London that moviegoers faced in the '40s before the latest Hedy Lamarr feature film began … who was getting all those shots? Who was wedged in that icy crevasse, his or her back against one wall, feet planted on the opposite wall to get that leap-over? Who was slithering through the treasure-laden and gilded coffin catacombs on his or her elbows and thighs, backwards mind you, as a disintegrating cave-in suddenly tore through the tunnel? Who was running knee-high in a mosquito-infested river through a VietNam jungle behind a soldier sprinting to catch the helicopter that hovered and waited to whisk away the last man on the ground? A cameraman, that's who. (Note: that soldier wasn't the last man on the ground ... who picked up the cameraman after the helicopter buzzed away?)

Certainly, the early days of film mechanics are passing away quickly: changing film cans behind a burned out car amidst Beirut gunfire; blindly rewinding used film back into its case as a savanna lion determinedly stalks you and your tripod, your hands feeling frantically around in a black bag to secure the rewound film so as not to expose it to light all while you're hoping not to become Lion Chow at any second. With the advent of instant, digital, shoot-straight-to-air, cloud-computing and all formats of ENG (Eletronic News Gathering) known now and to become known, there remains a determination, spirit, durability and focus innate in the cameraman that is timeless. Get in and get the action, no matter what. Wet boots, frozen eye-cup, sweltering heat, whizzing bullets, the obligatory passer-by who has to mug for the camera, on-coming grizzlies and lions … it matters not. Watched an episode of Whale Wars or Deadliest Catch lately? (Not to mention, Toddlers and Tiaras? Now, that's got to be a horror to shoot. Good heavens!)

Sender Films, founded by Peter Mortimer, Colorado family man and dog lover, currently leads the pack, at least popularly via 60 Minutes and CBS Morning News vignettes. Certainly the rock climbers and highwire daredevils he documents merit praise; yet, once again ... there's someone in even greater danger, executing essentially the same challenges, but holding a camera whilst doing it. Think your day is sketchy? Check out their YouTube channel! Huzzah, Mortimer and crew!

Let me preface this by stating I am taking nothing away from the subjects at-hand, be they the heroic crews of Discovery Channel's Whale Wars, National Geographic-subject and Stanford professor and primatologist, Dr. Robert Sapolsky, studying temperamental baboons on location in Kenya, the amenable and masochistic Bear Grylls of Man vs. Wild, or the oddly-fascinating boys of the Bering Sea. The fact that someone has chosen to document these situations and subjects tells us what they do is of interest to somebody.

If you are a fan of Deadliest Catch you will envision easily the frozen decks of the crab boats and relentless, whipping seawater snapping over the rails as the heralded crabmen work 1K-pound steel pots in and out of the Bering Sea for gain. (I cannot call myself a fan of the show, as I am far beyond that. Fanatic does not cover it. Obsessed? Oh, yes. To write this, I had to force myself to turn off a D.C. episode on Netflix and set down my copy of North by Northwestern by Captain Sig Hansen: an excellent and recommended read, by the way. Written in a very affable and conversational manner, much like that of former-President Ronald Reagan's autobiography Dutch.)

These men work on a stage of constant pitch and swell, like those old pocket games in which the player tilts the game this way and that as he tries to sink a score of tiny, steel balls into a series of holes. The decks of the Northwestern, Time Bandit and such remind me of those games: Mother Nature working ferociously to pitch the tiny, steely fishermen into a series of holes on-deck. As they try to walk and work on these decks, as well as below, they often grab the odd rail or pot to stabilize themselves. They also do their best to stay off the verboten rails. It only takes one watery swipe of the Grim Reaper's frigid claw to wrap around and usher a man down to Davey Jones' Locker. Now, try all this with a pro-grade camera and battery (heavy mothers) on your shoulder, both hands engaged on it and seeing it all through one eye pressed into a cold, moist, rubber eye-cup. (To be fair to the Bering Sea Boys, imagine working under such conditions amidst a forty-hour shift while a cameraman sticks his gear in your face and asks you if you're tired.) Forget not the cameramen aboard the chase boats, being tossed high and low in hurricane-strength ice storms, sailing the same horrific sea, being tossed hither and thither.

The cameramen appointed to each boat in the show, affectionately initiated as "Poodleboys from L.A." by some of the crustier crabbers, started off as so many documentarians do: a nuisance and a sheer pain in the ass. Happily, from what I've read and seen, each boat's camera crew, much like Jane Goodall and her earned acceptance into the suspicious and tight-knit gorilla families, has been welcomed into the ships' crews. (Unless you're Norman Hansen: one of[image error] the more suspicious primates to crack, I understand.) Kudos, Zac MacFarlane and all the DC cameramen!

Special kudos, by the way, to Sean Riley of National Geographic's World's Toughest Fixes: most amiable fellow you'll ever see host a show. Every episode I see, he recognizes his cameraman, acknowledges him and seems to honestly care for his safety, as they're almost always hanging off of something horridly high. He also looks like he'll buy a round of Guinness at the end of the day. My respect to you, Mr. Riley. Cheers!

The plight of les pauvres came to light once again very clearly as I watched a recent episode of Scare Tactics. Mind you, I am not advocating charity and welfare for the poor dears. These brutes of endurance are neither in need, nor likely wish for, aid, charity or attention: not counting cigarette-and-coffee breaks. Those I have known too well, and known of indirectly, do not want notoriety. They like being the Edwardian butler in the room. Within moments, the principals forget they are even there and they catch every little whisper, nuance and sidelong glance. They are deftly invisible when need be and impressively ballsy when asked to retreat. (Don't folks realize a camera doesn’t have to be pointed at them to be recording? Shoe-shots with frank audio are simply awesome: to wit, the final few minutes of the final episode of Whale Wars season 2.) What most cameramen want is, first, to complain about the director, then good meals, good coffee, union wages, mileage- and location-pay outside the TMZ (Thirty Mile Zone), Bombay Sapphire martinis and laundry reimbursed (who knew?) and for everyone to stay away from their cameras.

For Pete's sake, never, ever touch a cameraman's equipment, ever. Especially the lens. Never touch the lens with your vile, oily, disgusting fingerprint-laden fingertips. (As an aside to any future reality-show or documentary subjects reading this, while it may seem melodramatic and oh-so-woe-is-me, never, ever grab the camera and push downward as you cry, "Turn that fucking thing off! Get it out of my face!" A stern look of silence or a simple, "You're just wasting tape." (source: Norman Hansen) will get the point across just fine without violating a thirty-thousand dollar lens. Have you ever noticed that reality show producers of such gems as Bad Girls Club or The Real World will allow felonious assaults, tequila-fueled catfights and pathological rage to get to professional cage match levels … until somebody touches the camera? Bada boom, bada bing! You've got the director, a couple of production assistants, the second unit cameraman and a producer running out of some cleverly disguised production closet to put an end to all the madness. Don't touch the camera, kid.

Back to Scare Tactics. If you are not aware of the show, it is a mean-spirited, yet (and I am disappointed in myself for this) damn funny sometimes, hidden-camera show on SyFy and hosted by the enjoyable Tracy Morgan. In short, folks with presumably deep-rooted and unresolved issues of resentment and hatred go to great and theatrical lengths to set up their "friends" and family in terrifying and heart-stopping gags: a car stalling on train tracks as a headlight (on a dolly with great speakers) zooms at the unsuspecting victim; alien spaceships abducting the children a subject is meant to be babysitting; wolfmen darting out of a wooded hollow to rip a deliveryman in two as the patsy watches. It's always best when a parent sets up a kid: just a playful way to tell them "I still resent having you." Lovely. Of course, one has to ask, does the mark deserve such torture? In many cases the answer is, Yes. This was just such an episode.

This mark, an overweight and whiny punk was set up by a loved one and made to believe he had been hired by a 20/20-style news magazine which brought the most heinous of felons back to their scenes-of-the-crime. The set up: interview a manacled, shackled, orange-jumpsuited serial killer in police custody in the old New Brunswick house where he'd allegedly done his deeds. During the interview, the killer protested vehemently that he had never killed anybody, but a mysterious entity named "Charlie" had. In a dramatic and sudden loss of electricity amidst a fabricated storm and within a bedroom decorated with some eerie Helter Skelter-styled wall-scrawling, "Charlie" appears in a puff of smoke and blue light, red eyes aglow. The mark, scared out of his wits cowers in the corner and watches his life flash in front of his eyes as the serial killer squirms on the floor and begs Charlie not to "do this again". Charlie then turns to the mark and announces he will be now be taking his soul. (The SFX must be pretty believable, because these people are always scared breathless and play right into the prank.) Naturally, the victim pleads for his life. When Satan's Little Helper, Charlie, claims in an echoed voice infused with some evil audio tweaking, he shall be taking his soul, without missing a beat, the fat little punk points across the room and offers up, "The cameraman! The cameraman!", much to the shock of proffered-cameraman. What a horrid little creature. Take the fat, little punk, Charlie.

Are you a cameraman? Do you feel appreciated? You should! Show some love and tweet my respect!

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Boiled Frumenty and Hot Cockles, Anyone? My Weird, California Christmases

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Now, I'm ready for Christmas! (If you read my Thanksgiving post, you will recall my need to enjoy each season and holiday at my own, leisurely pace ... not the merchandisers'.) There are many a thing that mark the Christmas season, yet few make it so pleasurable as an enorme café: Peet's, Nordtrom Cafe and Starbucks topping my personal Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. To date, I have officially had my fill of pumpkin spice Americanos (pupils have morphed into tiny pumpkins) and have happily moved along to egg nog lattes and gingerbread cappuccinos ... always with whipped cream. Apropos, I now not only welcome the red cup-brigade, but shriek a little with joy each time I am handed one by the elfin baristas, chirpy members of a sadly dwindling list of retail's most customer service-oriented companies: Sbux, Nordstrom, Disney and Tiffany & Co. capping that list of old-fashioned attention to the faithful habituées.

As the understudy-Thanksgiving has slid gracefully back into the wings, offering center-stage to its glitzy Christmastime lead, my tweeds and grey flannel have also jazz-handed into the wardrobe-wings, saving Curtains-up for my black wiggle dresses and patent leather boots. Our San Diego weather has blissfully, for the week or so, turned just chilly enough for me to step out and check the post box in fingerless gloves. Still, cloudy skies, drizzle, gloves and all, something is not right. I think there may be too many palm trees.

Yes, I think my beloved palm trees are the issue. If you have followed me for some time, you will know well of my much-anticipated move back home to SoCal from the East Coast: Colonial Williamsburg, Virginia to be precise. For six years, amidst a grove of pines, oaks and magnolias, I pined (heh heh heh) for my eucalyptus trees and fluttering palms. When one spends enough months in a cold and grey, Eastern hamlet it is easy to dream of a sunny, beachy, Spongebob Christmaspants.

To wit, over those six years we made it back to Cali every Christmas (save for one year spent in the equally tropical, but happily even more piratical bliss of St. Augustine, Florida). It was a sublime situation: Christmases of sunshine, red wine al fresco and warm beaches, yet bookended by merry, snowy, cinnamon-scented, East Coast winters. Now that we've been back full-time for a while, a San Diego Christmas feels as weird once again as it did when I was a kid. It's as though I'm playing the 18thC. Christmas game of Hot Cockles: one is blindfolded whilst the other merrymakers take a whack at the victim with a stick ... the whackee must then guess who did it. I think I got whacked, but I'm not sure when and by whom.

Woody Allen once said in an interview (and I paraphrase) that when he was in New York, he wished he was in Sweden and when he was in Sweden, he wished he was in New York. I hear thee, Good Sir. Without a shadow of a doubt, if I was still in Williamsburg, I'd be pining for SoCal and wishing I could take my egg nog latte outside at the Del Mar Starbucks or stroll sleeveless through South Coast Plaza or Downtown Disney with an iced gingerbread Americano. Naturally, this Christmas finds me wishing I could partake in a steaming cup of Queen Mary's tea at Aroma's on Prince George Street in Williamsburg, a Blue Crab Bloody Mary at Pusser's Landing on Annapolis' Inner Harbor or even a grody bowl of boiled frumenty (boiled wheat soup) and a Guinness at some ancient, sticky pub in Philly. True, I was born in Miami Beach and grew up in San Diego. I love my blue skies and missed my California-light and balmy winds dearly during my Eastern sojourn. I should know the answer to all this already, this should all come as no shock to me by now ... but, now that I'm back, where the Hell is all the Christmas?!

Albeit a wondrous surprise, one that even brought a wee tear or two, I happened upon the Disneyland Christmas Fantasy Parade whilst at the Park recently. As it was November, I was neither expecting nor ready for this, one of my many holiday traditions. It was also 90-some degrees and blindingly bright. As I dabbed at my brow being roasted in the sun, I smiled gleefully and clapped like a dork as the skating snowflake girls glided by and all the Disney Princesses and their consorts waltzed down Main Street. I just about lost my cookies when I finally saw The Big Guy bringing up the rear, floating on-high in his sleigh. Jumping up and down like the geek I am, I couldn't help but think to myself, "Good Lord, Santa must be hot in that suit."

We eventually quelled the heat by ducking out of the Park for a bit and enjoying a pineapple martini at Roy's Hawaiian in the Anaheim Gardenwalk. When we returned to the Park, while the warmth had little subsided, the daylight had thankfully gone to bed and we were rewarded for our return with the season's inaugural lighting of Sleeping Beauty's castle and a round of Christmas fireworks that only Disney can do so well. It was beyond-glorious ... and so damn warm.

I know, I know, "Poor little Cali girl". To all those folks in the likes of Pittsburgh, Buffalo, Reykjavik or Oslo, I apologize. I imagine complaining of too much good weather at Christmastime is like Sofia Vergara complaining they don't make cute bras in her size. Still, if I see one more dude in Uggs, boardshorts, a Santa hat and no shirt I shall puke. If I see one more old lady the colour and texture of a Louis Vuitton satchel lying out at Buccaneer Beach writing her Christmas cards, I shall puke even more.

Thankfully, I have those very merchandisers and retailers I railed against not two weeks ago to help me adjust to my new re-normal. It's not quite Colonial Williamsburg, it's not New York's Fifth Avenue, but amongst South Coast Plaza (Xmas shopping tradition since grade school), Disneyland (ditto) and Starbucks' red cup-brigade, I just may make it through this holiday season without a sunburn.To boot, thank goodness for the In-laws and their Big Bear cabin; that helps and Uggs are welcome year-round at 6,700 feet.

Natch, television always makes everything better, too! Once again, my holiday offering to you ... my humble faves! So as to escape my formulaic model, I commence this holiday's recommendations with musical selections. Bing Crosby, it ain't ... oh, wait ... there are quite a few Bing Crosby tunes in there. Before anyone calls foul or pagan where it concerns any of my suggestions, remember this: Christmas is not a solely Christian holiday.

"Christmas" was not celebrated until 4thC., C.E. when Emporer Constantine defected from his own sun-worshiping, pagan followings and essentially founded Christianity. Christmas is a mélange, a spiritual and pagan amalgam of millennia stewed in winter celebration, thanksgiving and festivity. The only reason Constantine declared the 25th as the certifiable day of joy was to coincide with the same date/week ancient Babylonians, Romans, Celts and Norsemen had already been celebrating for eons, knowing full well he would not be able to stop them from said-jubilation.

Fave Christmas (plus Chan ukah) Songs!

A Charlie Brown Christmas by the Vince Guaraldi Trio

A Christmas Together by John Denver and the Muppets

A Fresh Aire Christmas by Mannheim Steamroller

Oi to the World by No Doubt

Santa Claus and His Old Lady by Cheech and Chong

The Chanukah Song by Adam Sandler

Greensleeves by King Henry VIII (purportedly by HRH for Anne Boleyn)

Santa Baby by Eartha Kitt or Madonna

The Christmas Song by Weezer

Christmas in Killarney by Bing Crosby

Susie Snowflake by Rosemary Clooney

Gabriel's Message by Sting

Christmas Song by Alvin and the Chipmunks

I'll Be Home for Christmas by Bing Crosby

Jingle Bells by dogs

O Holy Night by Eric Cartman

Mele Kalikimaka by Bing Crosby and The Andrews Sisters

White Christmas by Bing Crosby

Fave Christmas TV Episodes!

Modern Family "Undeck the Halls"

30Rock Any episode you can find!

Arrested Development "Afternoon Delight"

The Simpsons "Christmas Stories", "Mr. Plow", "Simpsons Roasting on an Open Fire"

Seinfeld "The Red Dot", "Festivus", "The Pick"

Northern Exposure "Seoul Mates"

The O.C. "The Best Chrismukkah Ever"

Scrubs "My Own Personal Jesus"

Family Guy "A Very Special Family Guy Freakin' Christmas"

Wonderpets "Save the Reindeer!"

Keeping up Appearances "A Very Merry Hyacinth"

Little House on the Prairie "The Christmas They Never Forgot"

King of the Hill "'Twas the Nut Before Christmas","Pretty, Pretty Dresses"

The Office (U.S. version) "Christmas Party", "Benihana Christmas", "Secret Santa", "Classy Christmas", "Moroccan Christmas"

The Office (U.K. version) "Christmas Specials"

Friends any X-mas episode

 

Fave Christmas Films!

A Charlie Brown Christmas (duh!)

A Christmas Story

Elf

The Bear Who Slept Through Christmas

Santa and the Three Bears

A Muppet Christmas Carol

Black Adder's Christmas Carol

Mickey's Christmas Carol

National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation

Emmet Otter's Jug-Band Christmas

A Garfield Christmas

Home Alone

Holiday Mayhem (Allstate's 2010 12 Days of Mayhem)

La Grande Competition (Stella Artois' 2010 Christmas commercial)

Christmas Entertainment (Schweppes holiday commercials - frigo fantastico!)

 

If I neglected anything, please let me know! I'm toujours happy to amend my lists!

Merry Christmas, Joyeux Noel, Happy Chanukah, Gledelig Jul, Froehliche Weihnachten, God Jul and Mele Kalikimaka to everyone!!

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Aren't You a Little Old for Halloween? A Costume Recollection, Plus JennyPop's Fave Frightful Film, TV and Books

 

 

Those who know me well, know that just waking up is a fantastic excuse to play dress up, to add a little drama or funk to something as prosaic and mundane as going to the grocery store or Starbucks. Certainly, I'm not talking wild attire for daily wear; I'm not a Club Kid in search of ways to piss off conservative parents, after all. Still, there's no reason one's daily appearance can't have an element of the fanciful: a lunchbox, a grand piece of jewelry with jeans and a tee, an odd, vintage box-purse, shoes that make [image error]grouchy folk in line behind you at the post office say angrily, "How do you walk in those?! You're going to ruin your feet, mark my word. One day when you're my age, you'll be sorry!". (Funny enough, I may be your age already.)

My theory is you have to don clothing and shoes anyway, why not have a little fun? To that point, I applaud and support Jenna Maroney's (30 Rock) petitioning the Tony Awards to add the category of "Living Theatrically in Normal Life". (I wonder how one can become nominated, should she prove successful? I may need your help.)

Naturally, Hallowe'en provides the likes of Moi the perfect opportunity to go nuts. Considering further my love of media, it should not come as a shock that many a costume's impetus is a fave film, book or television show. I once threw North and South party, in which everyone was to dress up as Civil War figures from the John Jakes novel and MOW: Movie of the Week. (I was partial to Miss Ashton Main: part Scarlett, part Jenna, part Lucretia Borgia) Alas, only one friend came (not dressed), but we still had fun.

I should have taken a clue from that and not planned my Mozart's Birthday Party (Yes, I was Mozart) or my Famous French Literary Figures Party for Bastille Day (I was to be Voltaire). In the end, I was gently talked out of both and ended up going to the mall or Disneyland or some such other de rigueur, de facto, SoCal activity for teenagers. Now, Hallowe'en!! That is a holiday when I can dress up and no one can make fun of me or judge me ... mostly.

From the beginning, dressing for Hallowe'en was a personal mandate. I'm sure my Mom dressed me up as a pea-in-a-pod or a pumpkin or a ladybug or something as a baby; but from age three the choices have been all mine. Having a fanciful and creative mother, combined with a lenient and supportive father, both thinking it very important for my spirit to remain nurtured, it never occurred to me there was a time when dressing up would not be appropriate. I believe for most, this time may come in high school. Pathetically, I often found myself one of the very few on campus whom dressed up; in fact, I don't even recall a lot of kids dressing up in elementary school either, but I'm sure there were quite more than I recall.Of course, I grew up in the '70s and '80s: the age of the Razor Blade in the Apple- and Sewing Needles in the Tootsie Roll-scares. Naturally, trick-or-treating, and by default the spirit of the holiday overall, took a pretty big hit. I think the year of the Tylenol scare I was a Civil War nurse, just in case: dark comedy came to me early.

At school, I tended to be a loner, with the exception of a few very close pals, and skipped along my merry, lone way for the most part. Whether a lot of kids dressed for Hallowe'en in fifth grade is fuzzy. What is not fuzzy is that I was definitely the only one who dressed up for Thanksgiving: the Wednesday before Thanksgiving Break, to be exact. Mom made that costume and I loved it, except for the fact that I wasn't allowed to eat cranberries at school that day, because it might get on my collar and apron. I also couldn't swing on the monkey bars, because it might show my bloomers.

By age fourteen, I was a Western Dance Hall Girl (burgundy-and-black taffeta, feather and lace costume by Mom again) and while it did finally get me noticed by a number of the cute skiers and surfers at my school (I say "finally" because it was my Junior year and nary a date in sight), it also got me my very first, "Aren't You a Little Old for Hallowe'en?".

I suppose fourteen is a little old for trick-or-treating, which is when I fielded this query for the first time. It was with two of my childhood friends, in a comfortable neighborhood in San Diego, when we knocked on our third or fourth door of the night. My very own Larry David (as seen in the opening vignette) opened the door, looked us all up and down and, happily for him, handed over the booty, albeit small handfuls and begrudgingly so.

He asked one friend, "What're you supposed to be?" without a hint of humour.

She, being one of the most cheerful and exuberant people I know to this day, laughed heartily and admitted something along the lines of, "I have no idea! Some kind of weird clown thing or something!"

It was true. She'd put together something at the very last minute and it consisted of a rainbow clown wig, wacky makeup, suspenders, just a bunch of crap she found at home. She was a Thing, indeed. My other pal was something very sensible, like a doctor or a Disney Imagineer or something that probably involved little more than her daily school clothes and maybe a pair of nerd glasses and funny socks, leaving our Larry David with no need to question her attire. (She is, in fact, a doctor today. She may have spent her time more wisely than I, now that I think of it.)

I was said-Dance Hall Girl and, as L.D. stood mesmerized by my fourteen year-old bosom, he asked it, "Aren't You a Little Old for Hallowe'en?"

I think we went directly back to the would-be-doctor's house after that and spent the rest of the night giggling, watching It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown, Garfield's Halloween Adventure and eating Morton's frozen donuts.

I am proud to say I did not let my personal Larry David affect my spirit by any means, nor have I any of the other L.D.s I would meet through the years. Although, I did learn that year I may have been "too grown up", as a gym teacher once told me, "to wear certain things until you get to college". (I don't think she realized I'd still only be about fifteen or sixteen then, but point taken, Mrs. Skrudgeons.)

By eighteen, I was on the road to the media-inspired getup. That year was a wild party somewhere in Newport Beach and I searched vintage shops up and down Newport for the perfect Sophia Loren dress and accessories, only to compile the perfect ensemble and realize nobody knew who I was. At the last minute, Cleopatra gave me a wig of hers and said, "Here, be Marilyn. You have the tits for it."

After it all, Hallowe'en is a remarkable time with an important message of Freedom of Expression. A real Devil May Care attitude whisping through the air. I can enjoy dressing up everyday. Many people cannot and this night gives them that outlet so desperately necessary to human emotion: the occasional exposure of one's alter ego and utter release from one's self.

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If I may be so bold, I'd like to end this oddly therapeutic post with some recommendations of my favourite Halllowe'en viewing and reading. Should you have any faves of your own, please, share ... and scare.

Fave Hallowe'en Films!!

It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown ... duh!

Hocus Pocus

Hansel & Gretel: Witch Hunters

The Craft

The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (original 1919)

Garfield's Halloween Adventure

Francis Coppola's Dracula

Tim Burton's Sleepy Hollow

Wishbone: The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

Tim Burton's Nightmare Before Christmas

Eloise's Rawther Unusual Halloween

The Shining

The Others

From Hell

Scooby Doo on Zombie Island

Scooby Doo and the Goblin King

Amityville Horror

Carrie

Interview with the Vampire

Pirates of the Caribbean I and II

Ed Wood

The Innkeepers

Dark Shadows

Lords of Salem

The History Channel's History of the Salem Witch Trials

The Salem Witch Trials (feature film with Kirstie Alley)

 

Fave Hallowe'en TV Episodes!!

South Park "Korn's Groovy Pirate Ghost Mystery"

Bob's Burgers "Full Bars"

666 Park Avenue "A Crowd of Demons"

Friends "The One With the Halloween Party"

The Simpsons "Treehouse of Horror" ... any episode

Spongebob Squarepants "Graveyard Shift"

Scrubs "Halloween Special"

Freaks and Geeks "Tricks and Treats"

X-Files "Bad Blood", "Chinga", "Jose Chung's From Outer Space" & "Home"

NCIS "Witch Hunt" ... Abby as Marilyn!

Oddities any episode

Modern Family "Halloween"

90210 "Halloween" ... Kelly dresses like a trampire ... I just officially coined that term!

Roseanne any Halloween episode

Midsomer Murders "The Magician's Nephew"

Ghost Hunters any, especially the "Halloween Live" broadcasts

Monster Quest any Bigfoot, vampire, werewolf or ghost episodes

The Addams Family great for year-round

The Munsters ditto

Scooby Doo, Where are You? ditto-ditto ... any episode from the classic, original series

 

Fave Hallowe'en Reading!!

Murders on the Rue Morgue by Edgar Allen Poe

Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving

Wicked Business by Janet Evanovich

Ghostgirl by Tonya Hurley

Blackwood Farm by Anne Rice

Pirate Latitudes by Michael Crichton

Wraith by Phaedra Weldon

Halloween by Jerry Seinfeld

Fangland by John Marks

Savannah of Williamsburg: The Trials of Blackbeard and his Pirates by Jennifer Susannah Devore

 

Did I forget any? Do tell me what I've omitted @JennyPopNet!

 

"My boat's gone, my candy's gone, dead pirates are coming for me! I want to go home!"

-Garfield's Halloween Adventure

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Aren't You a Little Old for Halloween? A Costume Recollection, Plus JennyPop's Fave Frightful Film & TV

 

 

Those who know me well, know that just waking up is a fantastic excuse to play dress up, to add a little drama or funk to something as prosaic and mundane as going to the grocery store or Starbucks. Certainly, I'm not talking wild attire for daily wear; I'm not a Club Kid in search of ways to piss off conservative parents, after all. Still, there's no reason one's daily appearance can't have an element of the fanciful: a lunchbox, a grand piece of jewelry with jeans and a tee, an odd, vintage box-purse, shoes that make [image error]grouchy folk in line behind you at the post office say angrily, "How do you walk in those?! You're going to ruin your feet, mark my word. One day when you're my age, you'll be sorry!". (Funny enough, I may be your age already.)

My theory is you have to don clothing and shoes anyway, why not have a little fun? To that point, I applaud and support Jenna Maroney's (30 Rock) petitioning the Tony Awards to add the category of "Living Theatrically in Normal Life". (I wonder how one can become nominated, should she prove successful? I may need your help.)

Naturally, Hallowe'en provides the likes of Moi the perfect opportunity to go nuts. Considering further my love of media, it should not come as a shock that many a costume's impetus is a fave film, book or television show. I once threw North and South party, in which everyone was to dress up as Civil War figures from the John Jakes novel and MOW: Movie of the Week. (I was partial to Miss Ashton Main: part Scarlett, part Jenna, part Lucretia Borgia) Alas, only one friend came (not dressed), but we still had fun.

I should have taken a clue from that and not planned my Mozart's Birthday Party (Yes, I was Mozart) or my Famous French Literary Figures Party for Bastille Day (I was to be Voltaire). In the end, I was gently talked out of both and ended up going to the mall or Disneyland or some such other de rigueur, de facto, SoCal activity for teenagers. Now, Hallowe'en!! That is a holiday when I can dress up and no one can make fun of me or judge me ... mostly.

From the beginning, dressing for Hallowe'en was a personal mandate. I'm sure my Mom dressed me up as a pea-in-a-pod or a pumpkin or a ladybug or something as a baby; but from age three the choices have been all mine. Having a fanciful and creative mother, combined with a lenient and supportive father, both thinking it very important for my spirit to remain nurtured, it never occurred to me there was a time when dressing up would not be appropriate. I believe for most, this time may come in high school. Pathetically, I often found myself one of the very few on campus whom dressed up; in fact, I don't even recall a lot of kids dressing up in elementary school either, but I'm sure there were quite more than I recall.Of course, I grew up in the '70s and '80s: the age of the Razor Blade in the Apple- and Sewing Needles in the Tootsie Roll-scares. Naturally, trick-or-treating, and by default the spirit of the holiday overall, took a pretty big hit. I think the year of the Tylenol scare I was a Civil War nurse, just in case: dark comedy came to me early.

At school, I tended to be a loner, with the exception of a few very close pals, and skipped along my merry, lone way for the most part. Whether a lot of kids dressed for Hallowe'en in fifth grade is fuzzy. What is not fuzzy is that I was definitely the only one who dressed up for Thanksgiving: the Wednesday before Thanksgiving Break, to be exact. Mom made that costume and I loved it, except for the fact that I wasn't allowed to eat cranberries at school that day, because it might get on my collar and apron. I also couldn't swing on the monkey bars, because it might show my bloomers.

By age fourteen, I was a Western Dance Hall Girl (burgundy-and-black taffeta, feather and lace costume by Mom again) and while it did finally get me noticed by a number of the cute skiers and surfers at my school (I say "finally" because it was my Junior year and nary a date in sight), it also got me my very first, "Aren't You a Little Old for Hallowe'en?".

I suppose fourteen is a little old for trick-or-treating, which is when I fielded this query for the first time. It was with two of my childhood friends, in a comfortable neighborhood in San Diego, when we knocked on our third or fourth door of the night. My very own Larry David (as seen in the opening vignette) opened the door, looked us all up and down and, happily for him, handed over the booty, albeit small handfuls and begrudgingly so.

He asked one friend, "What're you supposed to be?" without a hint of humour.

She, being one of the most cheerful and exuberant people I know to this day, laughed heartily and admitted something along the lines of, "I have no idea! Some kind of weird clown thing or something!"

It was true. She'd put together something at the very last minute and it consisted of a rainbow clown wig, wacky makeup, suspenders, just a bunch of crap she found at home. She was a Thing, indeed. My other pal was something very sensible, like a doctor or a Disney Imagineer or something that probably involved little more than her daily school clothes and maybe a pair of nerd glasses and funny socks, leaving our Larry David with no need to question her attire. (She is, in fact, a doctor today. She may have spent her time more wisely than I, now that I think of it.)

I was said-Dance Hall Girl and, as L.D. stood mesmerized by my fourteen year-old bosom, he asked it, "Aren't You a Little Old for Hallowe'en?"

I think we went directly back to the would-be-doctor's house after that and spent the rest of the night giggling, watching It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown, Garfield's Halloween Adventure and eating Morton's frozen donuts.

I am proud to say I did not let my personal Larry David affect my spirit by any means, nor have I any of the other L.D.s I would meet through the years. Although, I did learn that year I may have been "too grown up", as a gym teacher once told me, "to wear certain things until you get to college". (I don't think she realized I'd still only be about fifteen or sixteen then, but point taken, Mrs. Skrudgeons.)

By eighteen, I was on the road to the media-inspired getup. That year was a wild party somewhere in Newport Beach and I searched vintage shops up and down Newport for the perfect Sophia Loren dress and accessories, only to compile the perfect ensemble and realize nobody knew who I was. At the last minute, Cleopatra gave me a wig of hers and said, "Here, be Marilyn. You have the tits for it."

After it all, Hallowe'en is a remarkable time with an important message of Freedom of Expression. A real Devil May Care attitude whisping through the air. I can enjoy dressing up everyday. Many people cannot and this night gives them that outlet so desperately necessary to human emotion: the occasional exposure of one's alter ego and utter release from one's self.

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To display this content, you need a JavaScript capable browser.Adobe Flash Player not installed or older than 9.0.115!

If I may be so bold, I'd like to end this oddly therapeutic post with some recommendations of my favourite Halllowe'en viewing and reading. Should you have any faves of your own, please, share ... and scare.

Best Hallowe'en Films!!

It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown ... duh!

Hocus Pocus

The Craft

The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (original 1919)

Garfield's Halloween Adventure

Francis Coppola's Dracula

Tim Burton's Sleepy Hollow

Wishbone: The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

Tim Burton's Nightmare Before Christmas

Eloise's Rawther Unusual Halloween

The Shining

The Others

From Hell

Scooby Doo on Zombie Island

Scooby Doo and the Goblin King

Amityville Horror

Carrie

Interview with the Vampire

Pirates of the Caribbean I and II

Ed Wood

The Innkeepers

The History Channel's History of the Salem Witch Trials

The Salem Witch Trials (feature film with Kirstie Alley)

 

Best Hallowe'en TV Episodes!!

South Park "Korn's Groovy Pirate Ghost Mystery"

Bob's Burgers "Full Bars"

Friends "The One With the Halloween Party"

The Simpsons "Treehouse of Horror" ... any episode

Spongebob Squarepants "Graveyard Shift"

Scrubs "Halloween Special"

Freaks and Geeks "Tricks and Treats"

X-Files "Bad Blood", "Chinga", "Jose Chung's From Outer Space" & "Home"

NCIS "Witch Hunt" ... Abby as Marilyn!

Oddities any episode

Modern Family "Halloween"

90210 "Halloween" ... Kelly dresses like a trampire ... I just officially coined that term!

Roseanne any Halloween episode

Midsomer Murders "The Magician's Nephew"

Ghost Hunters any, especially the "Halloween Live" broadcasts

Monster Quest any Bigfoot, vampire, werewolf or ghost episodes

The Addams Family great for year-round

The Munsters ditto

Scooby Doo, Where are You? ditto-ditto ... any episode from the classic, original series

 

Best Hallowe'en Reading!!

Murders on the Rue Morgue by Edgar Allen Poe

Ghostgirl by Tonya Hurley

Blackwood Farm by Anne Rice

Pirate Latitudes by Michael Crichton

Wraith by Phaedra Weldon

Halloween by Jerry Seinfeld

Fangland by John Marks

Savannah of Williamsburg: The Trials of Blackbeard and his Pirates by Jennifer Susannah Devore

 

Did I forget any? Do tell me what I've omitted @JennyPopNet!

 

"My boat's gone, my candy's gone, dead pirates are coming for me! I want to go home!"

-Garfield's Halloween Adventure

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