Edgar, I haven't forgotten you

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I stumbled weak and weary....

Edgar Allan Poe was found in Baltimore (wearing clothes that weren't his) on Oct. 3, 1849, "in great distress, and... in need of immediate assistance," according to the man who found him.

He was taken to the Washington College Hospital, where he died on Sunday, Oct. 7, 1849, at 5 a.m. Poe never regained consciousness long enough to explain what happened.

Poe is said to have called out the name "Reynolds" on the night before his death, and some sources say Poe's final words were "Lord help my poor soul."

All medical records, including his death certificate, have been lost. The cause of his death remains a mystery.

Skele-gro your own Skele-mingo

I have already confessed my love of the kitschy pink, plastic lawn flamingo - despite its color.

But in while doing my Potions homework this weekend, I discovered I could create my very own Skele-mingo with judicious application of Skele-gro.

Just in time for Halloween! 

Can't you just hear it? "Don't make me release my flying monkeys skele-mingos!"

Mwahaha!

Moon over Bourbon Street

It seems appropriate now that I discovered ma chère amie Cécile's Deep Dark Secret on October 1.

As you might recall, I've written of my loathing of Cécile's bed before. I've also commented on mini Cécile's resemblance to a zombie.

But now I know the truth.

As you know, I attended the American Girl Fashion Show AZ on Saturday. (As a spectator NOT as a model - sniff.)

And what should meet my wondering eyes while examining the raffle prizes but Cécile. Sound asleep in a cardboard coffin ... next to her bed!

Nothing I could say or do would rouse her, but the sun was still shining.

Which leads me to one conclusion and one conclusion only.

Ma chère amie Cécile is a vampire.

A vampire who wears a hairnet while "sleeping."

Snigger.

See, the truth is out there.

She walks everyday through the streets of New Orleans
She's innocent and young from a family of means
I have stood many times outside her window at night
To struggle with my instinct in the pale moon light
How could I be this way when I pray to God above
I must love what I destroy and destroy the thing I love
Oh you'll never see my shade or hear the sound of my feet
While there's a moon over Bourbon Street

Sting