Mrs Morrison's Hotel

The 100% personal official blog for Patricia Kennealy Morrison, author, Celtic priestess, retired rock critic, wife of Jim

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Location: New York, New York, United States

I was, wait, sorry, that's "David Copperfield". Anyway, I was born in Brooklyn, grew up on Long Island, went to school in upstate NY and came straight back to Manhattan to live. Never lived anywhere else. Never wanted to. Got a job as a rock journalist, in the course of which I met and married a rock star (yeah, yeah, conflict of interest, who cares). Became a priestess in a Celtic Pagan tradition, and (based on sheer longevity) one of the most senior Witches around. Began writing my Keltiad series. Wrote a memoir of my time with my beloved consort (Strange Days: My Life With and Without Jim Morrison). See Favorite Books below for a big announcement...The Rennie Stride Mysteries. "There is no trick or cunning, no art or recipe, by which you can have in your writing that which you do not possess in yourself." ---Walt Whitman (Also @ and

Monday, December 04, 2006

Natural Born Chillers

Brrrrrrr! It’s cold here in NYC. And about time, I say. I love the cold, for many reasons, but not least because the freezy windy snow-smelling cloud-dramatic deep-blue-sky intense-sunset winter weather means I can go collect my fur coats from storage, and that makes me a warm and happy person.

Every spring it’s like sending the kids off to camp: the mink coat, the two fox jackets, Jim’s shearling, the three or four big long scarves. They get to hang out with their furry little friends all summer and fall, and they never send postcards (just like real kids), but come November (or early December, depending on how cold it is) they scamper home to me all clean and shiny.

I have no problem whatsoever with wearing fur. And no patience whatsoever with people who do have such issues. ‘Cause it’s always the self-righteous—who invariably eat meat or wear leather—who give fur-wearers a hard time about wearing fur. (I except from this, of course, the people who are rational and reasonable about it. Live and let live, and let us make coats out of whatever we want.)

“Murderer!” (yeah, like minks are people) and “How many animals died to make that coat?” (well, I don’t know, want to make it one more?) are the usual lines you hear. Always spoken while the speaker is hurrying past you (probably on their way to a steak dinner) so you won’t have a chance to respond (or hit them). So they’re cowards as well as sanctimonious little po-faced prigs.

Hey, holier-than-thous! What about that microfiber or poly or fake leather coat you’re sportin’? How many oil spills killing how many innocent sea creatures like otters and such did it take to make your jacket? At least I’m all natural, in a top-of-the-food-chain kind of world. I’d rather wear natural fur than unnatural petrochemicals any day. But obviously you’re just much saintlier than I am, you pure little antifur souls…must be nice to be perfect.

Listen, if mink tasted like beef, I’d eat minkburgers. If chicken had fur, not feathers, I’d wear chicken coats. I thank the animals’ spirits for keeping me warm and happy every time I wear fur, and I see no difference between using an animal ranched for food and using one ranched for fur. (Though I will say I’d never buy or wear a trapped fur, like lynx or wolf. Not even if Native Americans had lawfully trapped it. Only ranched.)

Before I bought my first fur, I asked a friend who was in the fur trade what happened to the little dead bodies, and he said they go to make pet food and fertilizer and lots of other uses, so nothing is wasted. Didn’t bother him, and he was a follower of Sri Chinmoy. It’s all natural! And if you feed your cat or dog tinned petfood meat, you too have participated in the great animal food chain fandango, PETA or not.

A few years ago, I went into a witch store in my neighborhood (I am not crazy about the place, mainly because it’s staffed by a clutch of little Pagandoodles who weren’t even zygotes when I was already many decades a-witchin’, but I needed candles in a hurry) wearing my fox coat.
The poser witchlets behind the counter immediately started loudly opining amongst themselves how they shouldn’t let people wearing fur cross their sacred and smug threshold, but carefully not looking at or addressing themselves to me personally.
Gosh, can you spell “passive-aggressive”, little witchlets? I think you can!
Don’t mess with the big guns, kiddies! Or big wands, as the case may be… Naturally, I immediately pulled a Travis Bickle: “You talkin’ to ME?” “Oh no no, we’re just saying.” Yeah, right.

When I went to pay for my little candle purchase, the female witchlet asked did I want paper or plastic, and she was seriously inquiring, not being snotty and certainly not seeing the irony. (She probably thought "irony" has something to do with, you know, iron.)
“Plastic??? PLASTIC???” I shrieked, enjoying myself enormously. “It’s biodegradable!” she lied desperately, backing away behind the register. “SO ARE THE FUCKING FOXES!” screamed I, not lying at all, and strode out of the store. Game, set and match!
Respect the law of the jungle, witchlets mine, which is also the law of Nature and Goddess, and while you’re at it, show a little respect to the most senior priestess for many blocks around. (Whose idol and role model is Granny Weatherwax, and if you don’t know who that is I suggest you find out.)

Because the natural way is always the better way. Think about that, PETA-heads, next time your future shoes spill out on a pristine Alaskan beach.


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