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Sunday, 23 September 2012 00:00 Jennifer Devore
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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!".



Wednesday, 19 September 2012 00:00 Jennifer Devore
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Frasier DRIVING with Martin, Daphne, Niles and Eddie

Niles and I thought this would be quite the soulful replenishment. Sleeping under the stars, cooking on an open fire, communing with Mother Nature, eeking out an existence just as the Snohomish Indians must have done a hundred years ago.

Oh, yeah. I'm sure the chief and his warriors all piled into the Range Rover when the fish counts dropped and toddled over to the next inlet, grabbing some Peet's Coffee on the way.

What's that thing around your neck, Dr. Crane?

Oh, this? This, is a turkey whistle.

You mean a turkey call?

Really, Dad. How simple do you think I am? Why would I want to call a turkey to our campsite?


Support group?

This is to ward off any wild turkeys lurking near the site. I just blow this ...

Niles BLOWS into the turkey call, much to everyone's irritation.

NILES (continuing)
... and off they scamper. Apparently, they carry rabies and fleas.

Of course. How silly of me. Did the salesman at Bob's Camping World tell you that?

Yes, actually. He was rather helpful. He also warned us about a creature called a night crawler. He said if one bit us we must suck the blood from the wound, then drown the wound and the beast in a cheap merlot.

Got it right here.

Niles RAISES a bottle.

Well, Niles couldn't bring himself to buy a cheap merlot. But, it is an Arizona wine.

Niles and Frasier laugh heartily.
The above is an excerpt from a spec script I wrote years ago when Frasier was in production. I copied the above-content to make a point: even the prissiest of Pollys can camp! See, I was called out recently by my very dear, very beloved sister-in-law. We'll call her Sugar Belle. Whether or not she recalls, Sugar Belle called me out publicly at a recent, family get-together. She stated very matter-of-factly over a cocktail we call the Speed Freak (Grey Goose and Starbucks White Chocolate Doubleshot) that there was no way I could cut it, camping. Like, real camping and hiking. In fact, as the Speed Freaks multiplied, she challeneged me specifically to a hike to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. I say, "Bring it on, Sugar Belle!" (Just not in triple digit-heat!) I do believe a wager is in order, though. You think about it. I'll wait.
Photo: JSDevore
See, I dig camping, hiking, sport and such. Tuolumne Meadows Yosemite is as familiar to me as is South Coast Plaza. Yours truly was even a geology major in college ... for like a second. I then learned I may have to spend a lot of time in grad school researching in the Mojave Desert. Ick. I loathe the sun and I loathe dirty hands. That was the end of that. I ended up studying PoliSci and French. Turned out there was a great market for that! Needless to say, despite the dirt -that's what Swiss hiking gloves are for- Sugar Belle called out the wrong Polly Prissy Pants!

True, I may prefer a National Park to just pitching a tent hither and thither; I like a clean lavvy, cheerful, Disney rangers and smooth, shaded, spacious sites. I like a secluded campsite, but I need it within screaming-distance of other campers in case of bears, serial killers, Bigfoot or hippies. I also prefer a gift shop nearby where I can buy a new piece of amber jewelry to commemorate the trip. I also do not prefer, but require, wine, Guinness, camembert and a baguette, my mini, camping espresso maker and my green, Speckleware demitasses. My camping togs might be old, holey, trashed Ralph Lauren pieces and vintage Boy Scouts shirts; my hiking shoes might be vintage Italian climbing boots. Still, that doesn't mean I can't scale the terrifyingly steep face of Mount Lambert (done that), live on Nature Valley granola bars (peanut butter flavor!) and Cup o' Noodles, take a cat bath or wash my hair utilizing the baby powder-and-braids method for a week.
Sugar Belle, it's time for a friendly wager. It's on, Princess Sami!

Update: 10 December 2012
As of this week, the Grand Canyon hike is officially set in stone; although, ironically, it seems Princess Sami has yet to respond to this challenge, verbally, casually, written or otherwise. Though, we have shared more than a few Grey Goose Cape Cods since I first scribed this friendly challenge. I shall, nevertheless, be tromping up and down the Canyon this coming February with my Viking, a fave hippie pal and said-hippie's young microcosms. The Italian, red-laced, hiking boots (as seen above) have yet another adventure at hand! Join us, Sami my love, won't you? I love you, man!!!

Thursday, 13 September 2012 11:40 Jennifer Devore
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Scribbling and bibbling is not something I decided to "try my hand at" one day. I did not think to myself amidst a sunny sojourn along La Côte d'Azur, "Hey, Magnolia. You should take a stab at writing." It's just what I do. I imagine I was keeping a journal in utero, à la Stewie Griffin, until that blasted Man in White came and removed me from my quiet study.

If I was prone to Glee-style melodrama, I would flip my curls and toss my chin, proclaiming loudly, "I have to breathe, don't I?! Well, dammit, Janet! I have to write!". Thank Jebus I am not thusly prone. Many of you know of this early proclivity, with the emergence of Book Bird, my very first, "published" tale, hardbound by the Parental Units when I was a wee thing, at the age of six. Before that, loads of notepad novellas, written on Garfield stationery and bound nicely with yarn or staples and sporting my very own cover art: "The Bear and the Bees", "The Cat and the Mouse" and, the already legendary, "Jennifer Will Be a Pink Fan Forever!". (Perchance, I shall share these someday.)

If I was a Tombstone gunslinger, I'd have a leather journal in one holster and my Waterman pen in the other. "Draw!" "I'd rather write, Pardner!"

Now, I am almost as famous for my proclivity to scribe as I am infamous for my laziness. There forever looms the certainty that I shall become very bored at a moment's notice and drop that which is my current endeavour. To that end, kudos to Moi for actually finishing and publishing four novels! In fact, I'm feeling very bored this very minute and just may pour a glass of wine and see what's in my Hulu queue. Cross your fingers for some "Real Housewives"! BRB!

I'm back. No "Real Housewives". Yet, there was some "Hotel Hell " (Chef Gordon Ramsay! Hubba-hubba!) and there's always time for a "30Rock" and "American Dad" break. Now, where was I? Oh, yes ... journals.

So, I start off big, with the honest intentions of filling each and every leaf of those gorgeous, blank books I take such pleasure in selecting, and oft decoupaging, themed just so. Some are for travel, some are for working on specific books and some are mere notepads, jotting down everything from Nordstrom wish lists to the Drake Equation.

Journals, especially travelogues, are very similar to the lush, Irish cable knit sweaters I used to knit as a young girl, only to "finish" them some two hours later, claiming, "Look, Daddy! It's a doll rug!" or, the painstakingly sewn, Ralph Lauren-pattern suit I once made in high school. I worked my bony fingers to bloody nubs all summer long: three months of tedious darts, French stitches, princess seams and hand-rolled silk edges, not to mention using bonkers-expensive wool and vintage buttons. Upon its near-completion, you guessed it, I grew bored. Oh, so bored. I ended up safety-pinning the entire hem and refused to iron the fold lines out of the whole thing. So many of my travel journals are beautiful tweed suits with safety-pin hems. Now, you get to fix the hems of a select few travelogues!

How do you think my trips ended? What do you think happened? I'll post a series of these unfinished scribblings over the next few posts and you write the ending! There's even an entry written by a friend with whom I travelled to the U.K. and France one summer. Some of you may know of Miss Nancy: Gloomy, Funny Laguna Girl. Whilst she would essentially, quizzically break up with me years later -I suspect it was politically motivated- I have to give props; she was, probably still is, a damn funny and gifted storyteller. Not nearly as gifted as I, though. Heh heh heh. I wonder if she's still sporting her Goth-lite look?

Nance took over a section of my journal at lunch one day in Edinburgh. It's quite humourous and, in fact, whilst I did finish that particular journal, all the way to its end at LAX, she left her entry somewhat open-ended. Hey! You could finish her entry! Nance, if you're out there, you could finish it, too! Have a read and finish Nancy's Scottish saga! I'll just add one of my own next time. Voila!

Excerpt from Jennifer Susannah Devore's Travel Journal

8 June 1994, Noon (apparently)

Guest Writer, Nancy Owen Freeman

After a couple of hours in and about the grounds of Holyrood Palace, we headed up the Royal Mile, an historic mile-long street which connects Holyrood with Edinburgh Castle. Today, it is lined with antique shops and specialty boutiques and a certain French restaurant called La Crêperie. I'll let Nancy write the ensuing entry.

Nancy's entry -We wandered in not exactly famished, but definitely prowling for a brie and a little mineral water. I plopped down at a corner table relatively quickly, Jennifer however wandered aimlessly turning this way and that trying to summon a hostess with her umbrella. She still had trouble grasping the self-seating theory observed in most English & Scottish restaurants. After a pleasant barmaid emerged and confirmed that we could sit wherever we wanted, Jennifer joined me.

Moments later, after the barmaid had simply removed the large chalkboards with the day's menu from their hangers outside, and leaned them up against the table opposite us for selection, a rather tall shadow fell over the table.

I looked up from the menus and was greeted by what I can only describe as a 6'2" adult "Petit Prince" from the children's novel by Antoine St. Exupery. He had a tastefully sculpted, blond afro, blue eyes and strangely appealing spaces between his teeth. All this sat atop a tall, thin frame, which flowed about the pub with puma-like grace. He was in short, a most delectable Frog.

"Hallo", he began, in an arousing baritone that in no way resembled his prepubescent, fictional twin's soprano squeak. "Bonjour," Jennifer replied. "Ah, bonjour," he returned with a little raise of his eyebrows, a gesture made purely to torment me in my geographically imposed celibacy. He and Jennifer chatted back and forth in French, she finally ordering for both of us since I had slipped into a fuzzy stupor. A surging tide of suppressed hormones was mercilessly tossing me about in the sexual vacuum I had become accustomed to living in over the past 2 years. The disorientation had left my vision blurry and my palms itchy. I was as articulate as a kiwi fruit.

He slinked away and in the somewhat lengthy time it took for him to bring our appetizers, I regained tentative control over my motor functions and told Jennifer how much he resembled an adult "Little Prince". Her eyes bulged in agreement and she threatened to tell him what I'd said when he returned. Just then he flowed back to the table laden with plates of assorted cheese and a basket of French bread.

- Pardon the interruption. I would just like to let whoever is reading this journal know that Mrs. Jennifer Susannah Noelani MacPherson Girstle [sic] Devore is a pathological cleptomaniac [sic]. A conclusion I have come to after just moments ago witnessing her philch a "First Class" head rest cover from the train seat. The second one she has snatched on our trip.-

Back to our story. After he placed our food on the table, Jen proceeded to tell him, in French, about how I thought he looked like "Le Petit Prince, all adult". He giggled and said in his thick Frog accent, "Oh no, he was naive ... " after taking a few steps away from the table he tossed an insidious little grin over his shoulder and finished with, "I am not." At which point I became a complete puddle and Jen had to squeegee me out the door.

What happens next? Where did Le Petit Prince go after his shift? Where is he now? Where is Nancy? Is Le Crêperie still writing menus on chalkboards? Think it over and leave a brief ending or, write out something longer, then copy and paste it in the handy-dandy, JennyPop Contact Page! I'll post the best ending, with proper attribution, of course. (Keep your amendments clean, folks. I may be part-Edwardian upstart, but I am also part-Victorian dowager.)

Copy and Paste your ending here!

Monday, 10 September 2012 07:35 Jennifer Devore
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Like any junkie worth her weight in used hypodermic needles, I take my news any way I can get it. Anywhere, anytime and from anyone with the goods: Fox News, CNN, WSJ, KFI talk radio (Trustworthy, up-to-the-minute L.A./O.C./CA/national news, plus the likes of Rush Limbaugh, John & Ken, Mo' Kelly, Tim Conway, Jr., The Fabulous Lisa Ann Walter, George Noory and so many more!), BBC News, CNN International, Financial Times, France 24, Daily Show, Rolling Stone and whatever else my gritty nails can scratch up in a train station cafe or a rest stop outside of Richmond. I used to get a serious fix from Chris Matthews. Then, circa 2008 he turned weird, rude, subjective and totally unaware of himself. I still watch on occasion, hoping he'll come back. When I do watch, I think of David Letterman in a 2009 interview with a bearded and seemingly addled Joaquin Phoenix. Letterman ends the interview with, "Joaquin, I'm sorry you couldn't be here tonight.". Chris, I'm sorry you couldn't be here.

Simply because I occasionally lean to the right on various issues, some friends and fam erroneously presume my news and political intake must come solely from Fox News. As Dwight Schrute would say, "False." To boot, even if it did, Fox News' reporting and anchors -not their primetime, opinion programming- are as viable and objective as anyone's coverage. The fact is, I consider myself to be largely Independent/Libertarian.

So, as of late, across the political media landscape, in the frenzy of RNC and DNC convention coverage, I cannot help but notice a dichotomy, an almost schizophrenic division of Democrats, amongst themselves. I don't mean a philosophical division amidst the party, I mean a Jekyll and Hyde division within core individuals. Fighting their own common sense and arguing with themselves, à la Liz Lemon or Larry David in vicious mirror-fights. Hilarious on 30 Rock and Curb Your Enthusiasm, sad and querulous on national news.

To cite a few:

Former president Bill Clinton backtracked on his praise of Mitt Romney and his qualifications to hold office. First stating, “this is good work…there is no question that the man has been a governor and has a sterling business career crosses the qualification threshold.” Bubba quickly recanted this. He also "refined" to CNN's Wolf Blitzer, comments about renewing Bush tax cuts and praising private equity companies, including Romney's Bain Capital.

Corey Booker, mayor of Newark, NJ also praised private capital investment, admitting to David Gregory on Meet The Press that attacks on Bain and private equity were "nauseating", made him "uncomfortable" and offended him on a "personal level". He enacted takesies-backsies very quickly via his own YouTube video.

Maryland Gov. Martin O'Malley's organic claim on Face the Nation that "We are not better off after four years ..." was walked back forthwith and all too quickly on CNN's Starting Point said, “We are clearly better off as a country ..." Politicians seem to spill their souls on Sunday morning talk shows, only to retract those souls on Monday morning. Sunday nights in D.C. must be tough.

Most glaringly, with steady eyes and an Obi Wan-like mind hold, DNC Chair Debbie Wasserman Schultz claimed, clear as a bell on audio, “We know, and I’ve heard no less than Ambassador Michael Oren say this, that what the Republicans are doing is dangerous for Israel.” She then denied having quoted the ambassador, after Oren himself said he argued no such thing. Wasserman Schultz added a double-scoop to her cone of lies and further claimed, with indignity, “I didn’t say he said that. And unfortunately, that comment was reported by a conservative newspaper. Not surprising that they would deliberately misquote me.” The odour of mendacity is strong with this one.

Watch the following videos and tell me what you see. Do you see reality? Or, as Anderson Cooper calls yet another of Wasserman Schultz' misspeaks during an interview about the controversial, convention vote to add "God" and "Jerusalem" to the Democratic party platform, do you see "an alternate universe"?

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It's all so Alice in Wonderland. Such a Mad Hatter's Tea Party! Wild hats and all!

Mad Hatter: Why is a raven like a writing desk?

Alice: Riddles? Now let me see... why is a raven like a writing desk?

Mad Hatter: I beg your pardon?

Alice: Why is a raven like a writing desk?

Mad Hatter: Why is a what?!

March Hare: Careful, she's stark ravin' mad!

Alice: But it's your silly riddle. You just said...

Mad Hatter: Easy, don't get excited!

March Hare: How about a nice cup of tea?

Alice: "Have a cup of tea," indeed! Well I'm sorry, but I just haven't the time!

Ironically, if you do a man-on-the-street segment, I'm willing to bet almost no one will even know who Debbie Wasserman Schultz is, let alone recognize her blatant inability to tell the truth from moment to moment. On the flip side, every single person you ask would know all about Clint Eastwood and his empty chair.

The legendary actor's-actor and director's-director deigned to bring a little theater to a rather stale RNC convention -a standard tenet of classical drama and philosophy, the empty chair as symbolism- and he was not only splattered across every mainstream website, newspaper and broadcast of popular note, but labelled therein as a "kook", "unhinged" and "losing it". Rachel Maddow snarked, "That was the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen at a political convention in my entire life.” Piers Morgan said Eastwood was "going bonkers" and asked interviewees, "Weren’t you in pain while he was up there?”. Andrea Mitchell, a once-serious and -objective journalist, in serious danger of going the Chris Matthews-way sniped that the speech "was exceedingly strange. It just seemed like a very strange, unscripted moment."

That's because it was unscripted, Mrs. Greenspan. Clint Eastwood is an actor and an improvisor and despite advice from "everyone but the janitor" on what to do, he went his own way and it was brilliant. He wasn't scripted, he didn't have crib notes and he sure as hell didn't use a Teleprompter. I understood his technique; I got the symbolism. It was an eloquent method to dramatize his point. In fact, there were three:

“I had three points I wanted to make,” Eastwood said in his first après-convention interview with Paul Miller of The Carmel Pine Co

ne. “That not everybody in Hollywood is on the left, that Obama has broken a lot of the promises he made when he took office, and that the people should feel free to get rid of any politician who’s not doing a good job. But I didn’t make up my mind exactly what I was going to say until I said it.”

Still, this is how modern Democrats and supposed-, pseudo-journalists fight. Dirty, personal, uninformed and way below the belt. Mental disease, aging and cheap name-calling are the tools they use? It's shameful. NPR called former Democratic Michigan governor Jennifer Granholm's DNC Howard Dean-styled convention speech "high-spirited"; ABC News called it "rousing" and CBS News said "energetic". If Rush Limbaugh calls her an unstable wackadoo, they'll tr

y to run him out of town like, well, the way they try to run Rush Limbaugh out of town on a regular basis.

For that matter, if Rush Limbaugh, Tucker Carlson, George Will or Bill O'Reilly called Ms. Longoria "a smart cookie", as Piers Morgan so insultingly did after conducting an interview about, not her upcoming speech, but her dress and shoes at length, well ... I am loathe to think of the misogynist-oriented attacks and repercussions therein.

Whether in vitriol-soaked anger or polite, intellectual discourse, when one waxes negative about a Democrat, specifically those nicely boxed into liberal platform-designated, "minority" groups, the critic is instantly labelled a racist, a misogynist, a sexist, a bigot and so on. Counterpoint: are those individuals flinging slings and arrows at Mr. Eastwood, ageists? That's pretty low: making fun of the elderly.

Eva Longoria, by the way, spoke before Obama, much in the same programming design as Clint Eastwood did before Romney. Remember what she said?


Sick of it all, regardless of whom is saying what? Don't give up altogether. There is another candidate, running as the B Party candidate. Check her out! She's an absolute doll! Yes, we glam!


P.S. Need a little onus probandi and freedom of the press refresher? Voila! Book III of my Savannah of Williamsburg series of historical-fiction! Savannah of Williamsburg: Ben Franklin, Freedom & Freedom of the Press.


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Meet Miss JennyPop

Jennifer Susannah Devore

Jenny Pop is the acclaimed Author of the Savannah of Williamsburg series of books and The Darlings of Orange County. In addition, Jen is a prolific consumer of media and pop culture. Never leaving the house without her journal and fave Waterman pen, an old-fashioned, analog book (usually Hunter S. Thompson) and a fresh coat of lipstick, she is constantly on the hunt for fun, espresso, animation  and comics of any kind and always ready for an impromptu day at Disneyland. is a natural extension of  Jen's World; so, spend some time visiting. You'll have fun, she promises!

Meet The Darlings

The Darlings of Orange County

The sexy, cashmere beaches of southern California aren't always what they seem. The dirty little secret here is what it takes to survive. Everyone has a trick up their silk sleeve. Liz Lemon meets Parker Posey, Veronica Darling is smart enough to know what it takes and is willing to soil her soul to bring Hollywood to the California Riviera. The Darlings of Orange County is a salacious, hilarious, harrowing romp chock full of eco-terrorism, horse-racing scandals, weed deals and the obligatory lipstick-lesbian affair that inevitably leads to murder. It all climaxes in a white-knuckled, glitzy, celebrity-stacked Laguna Beach Film Premiere that spells success for Veronica Darling and trouble for her friends and family.

Meet Miss Savannah Squirrel

Savannah Prudence Squirrel

Savannah Prudence Squirrel

Meet Miss Savannah of Colonial Williamsburg in Virginia. Equal parts Amelia Earhart, Lucy Honeychurch, Scarlett O'Hara and Miss Piggy, Savannah is a scholar, adventurer and a lady. Moreover, she is a pebble in the silver-buckled shoe of injustice and with her best pals she is not a squirrel to challenge. She carries  the Magna Carta in one paw and the latest Parisian silk bag in her other. Whether fighting to end slavery, arguing for freedom of the press or scheming to end a duel, Miss Savannah does so with wit and persistence. Read more to meet her best friends and accomplices: Ichabod Wolfgang and Dante Marcus Pritchen. Prepare to also meet pirates, a Venetian fox and an Irish gull, The Commodore!


disneyhalloween 030.jpg

Meet Miss Hannah

Hannah Hart, ghost dame of the Hotel del Coronado

Hannah Hart, ghost dame of the Hotel del Coronado

So, here's the low down, all you Joes and Janes ... I'm Hannah Hart, dead girl. Don't fret, it's actually a sweet dish being dead. Having perished in 1934 in a terrifically vicious accessories incident with actress Ida Lupino, I reside where I died: San Diego's gorgeous Hotel del Coronado. It ain't a bad gig at all, really! Great weather, swanky guests (not to mention a few fellow ghosties), amazing amenities, my own private turret overlooking the sea and all the java juice and giggle water I can handle; plus, these bartenders know how to make a Planter's Punch like nobody's business! See, I've been waiting for this Internet thing forever ... now, instead of slamming doors and moving lamps, I get to wag my tongue all I like at

Abyssinia, kids!