It’s All Hallows Eve and There’s Pumpkin Spice and Everything Nice for Miss BrightSide!

Nicole was a Mom. She put her kids first. She put everybody else first… My sister had the ability to live life, live it bright and live it large… She had fun.’

Tanya Brown

Even if I haven’t exactly been ‘living it large’ here at Nicole’s House as of late; I’ve certainly been having some ‘fun’ even though I have been so busy with moving furniture and shifting plant pots while packing away the toys and putting the cherished family photographs into temporary storage.

And the reason for this interior upheaval?

As today is All Hallows Eve and I’ve long wanted to host a spooky soirée here at Nicole’s House; I thought it would be a great idea to ‘brighten’ up the place with terracotta pots of gnarled tree branches, lashings of cobwebs, an colony of spiders, bats and other fantasy folk, an abundance of peevish pumpkins and with enough candy and cake in which to sink a ship, 12th scale or otherwise!

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As Nicole was always known throughout her life as a devoted and loving mother who loved nothing more than to decorate her home for a party, I’d like to think that I’ve managed to capture just a ‘little’ of her inspirational creative spirit this All Hallows Eve.

Now, where did I put my plate of cake?

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When witches go riding.

And black cats are seen.

The moon laughs and whispers

‘Tis near Halloween

I have loved this quote for as long as I can remember and with a passion for anything and everything to do with Halloween, I always wanted a black cat and was beyond thrilled when Minnie B came to live with us last year; even though she can get into the occasional spot of mischief which is usually when she wants to grab my attention or else she’s pestering for a few of my cat ‘treats’.

But, I remain smitten with her and now that she has been created in 12th scale by the talented Pearl from Literature in Miniature as a Little Big Cat; Minnie B is also the inspiration for this All Hallows Eve tale.

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At first Minnie B had been very excited to have received her special invitation to the party at Nicole’s House for this All Hallows Eve but as the day arrived and even with the promise of lots of delicious cake; she was not her usual happy self.

‘Tis Halloween and Orange IS the New Black for Little Big Cat!

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Get a Life! A Brentwood State of Mind…

Brentwood, California, population 35,798, is the Los Angeles district where Marilyn Monroe’s ambiguously debated death occurred thirty-two years previously in the early evening hours of August 4, 1962.

Brentwood is also the psychic nexus of the O.J. Simpson/Nicole Brown saga, somewhere between 10.00 p.m and 11.00 p.m., June 12 1994.

Brentwood does not exist. Not technically. It is a hilly, canyoned Los Angeles suburb – a ZIP code: 90049. Letters sent to Brentwood will be returned to sender. Roughly 250 letters a day end up in the small, Northern California town of Brentwood, ZIP code 94513.

In the daytime, Brentwood is almost exclusively a city of women old and young, focused on a small band of retail strip along San Vicente Boulevard. There are women peppered with hunky aspiring actors and slinky actresses springing about from auditions to gym.

Brentwood gives the impression of being a 1970s future utopia, one with a secret at its core, perhaps a pleasant secret and perhaps an unpleasant secret, but a secret that nonetheless remains fiercely protected. Brentwood, like Palm Springs, offers a version of an alternative future that might have occurred had certain factors not continued unchecked, futures that daily seem less probable.

It was into this neighborhood that Nicole Brown Simpson landed after her divorce, in a $650,000 condo near the noisy southwest corner of Bundy and Dorothy, on Bundy, a condo that would cost maybe $350,000 were it in most other parts of the city.

One Brentwood resident who grew up in Brentwood Heights (above Sunset: equidistant from Monroe’s and Simpson’s houses), now in his twenties, calls lower Brentwood a divorcée ghetto. Three of his best friends from high school had parents who divorced, and all three mothers ended up “in the ghetto. Only my own mother [also a divorcée] got to keep the house. She’s the exception.”

If people here are annoyed with O.J. Simpson, possible double murder aside, it is only because he broke the covenant of invisibility. The corner of Rockingham and Ashford is going to be a tourist attraction for the next one hundred years, like it or not. Will this effect land values? Yes. But in which way, who is to know? Michelle Pfeiffer, although she lives below Sunset, has already chosen to move away to avoid the hubbub.

Just outside the Union 76 station at the corner of Bundy and San Vicente, a donation of a dollar, say, purchases you a photocopied sheet of “Poems for Nicole Simpson” by a local street entrepreneur wearing a felt-tip-pen-on-cardboard sign saying: MORE POEMS ABOUT NICOLE SIMPSON. Business in brisk. Locals say, “At least he’s offering something original and new.”

On San Vicente Boulevard, dark rumors float about Brentwood’s no-fat cafes, phone machines and the brightly lit aisles of the Vicente Market – rumors too dark, too dreadful to mention, for to speak the word is to give life, and who will spawn this monster?

Perhaps these rumors are true. Perhaps time will tell. Perhaps it will all be forgotten.

Meanwhile to hinder the “lookie-loo’s”, thru-traffic is blocked on both sides of Dorothy. An LAPD officer beside his motorcycle keeps traffic flowing.

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The front of the alleyway in which the bodies of Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Lyle Goldman were found has been screened off by a dozen or so dwarf plantings of Australian tree ferns and Nile lilies behind a new enclosure of green-plasticated chain-link fence that separates the walkway from the sidewalk (this part of Brentwood has sidewalks).

Signs put up by agitated neighbors saying “GET A LIFE” and “GO HOME THERE IS NOTHING 2 SEE” have been taken down. By August 4, late afternoon traffic no longer concertinas to a grind the way it did in the initial sensationalist frenzy of a few weeks ago. But it still slows down.

There are a few joggers and dog walkers – Brentwood’s only two species of residential pedestrian – and all are wearing Walkmans.

It was a dogwalker who first found the murdered bodies.

Douglas Coupland Polaroids from the Dead (London: Flamingo 1997)