Christopher Moore's Blog

I should be looking for flights so I don’t have to spend 18 hours to get home at the end of the month, but instead I’m going to share the high ponits of the last couple of days with you guys.

Well, for one, I wasted a good amount of time waiting for the fuckers to show up to drive a stake through Ronnie’s heart, but evidently they forgot. Have these people never been to a movie? Evil will rise again, as surely as the pyscho-killer is never dead on the first shot, as sure as the Terminator is not going to fall to a butt-load of cop gunfire, as sure as the day will follow the night, evil will rise again. You fools!

But, that said, I still think Patti Davis is kind of hot and if I were not blessed to be involved with an extraordinary woman, I would have offered to do her right there in front of the honor guard. You know, not to take advantage of her grief — jeeze, I’d have bought her some drinks first. I can’t believe you guys would even think that.

So, I went to see Patton Oswald at Cobb’s comedy club last night. He’s the sort of small, oval guy from King of Queens, and perhaps the most cynical and bitter little guy I’ve ever witnessed — so, of course, the show was great. Except for the forty minutes or so that he absolutely savaged two bachorette parties that made the mistake of identifying themselves. I mean savaged, which got a little uncomfortable when they started sniveling and stuff. It was kind of fun to watch. The high points of the show were the list of things he would vote for before voting for George Bush, which included: four years of unlubricated anal rape, shitting your pants with rotten south of the border tequila shit every time you blink your eyes for four years, or, you know, John Kerry. He also did a great riff on the reason to vote for George Bush, which was because it would be the quickest way to bring about the Apocalypse, and if you died in the Apocalpyse, you would have all kinds of bragging rights in Heaven over all then people who had died in bus accidents or from heart attacks. Couple of the particularly compelling signs of the apocalypse that Patton described were that menstrual blood would erupt from the earth and form the image of Avril Lavigne’s face in the sky, and the words from the screenplay for Good Will Hunting would turn into razors, fly off the page, and flay the flesh from your bones.

So it was pretty light-hearted and everyone seemed to enjoy the show, except for the dozen or so bachlorette party people, who I believe all threw themself under a cable car outside the club.

Then we went thrift-store shopping. By we, I mean my friend Jill Knight and her girlfriend Joanna. (I’ve written songs with Jill, check out her music at JillKnight.com.) Jill lives in the city, so she decided to take us down this alley in the Mission District which is lined with colorful murals done by local artists and art students. It was also lined by human excrement and populated by people buying and selling crack. “See that,” Jill said. “That was a crack deal back there!” Like she was pointing out a crested mallard on a bird-watching tour. (The crack-head is often found in alleyways and on streetcorners, where he will be stuffing vials into his socks and wondering if he can sell his last two teeth to someone for a modest rock.) Joanna and I had the full-blown willies by the time we got back out on a decent-sized street again.

“Why did you take us down there?” Joanna asked. “I thought you guys would enjoy the art,” Jill said, oblivious. Picture Jill the real embodiment of Peppermint Patty. It works, even for her. “You didn’t need to show me the crack house at pooh corner too,” I exhorted.

We laughed and laughed, then I mourned not being able to buy a twelve-foot tall paper mache’ parrot to hang in my kitchen from the next thrift store we visited. (Problem, it is, living on an island some times.)

So, other than that, not so much. I turned on C-span late one night to see Jon Stewart giving the commencement speech at William and Mary. As usual, he was great. The high point? “Most of you will probably not be fortunate enough to wander around in an alcoholic haze until you’re forty, then decide to become president.”

I actually applauded in my hotel room.

I’m off to St. Louis in the morning. Meanwhile, I’ll be out there, looking out for you guys, eating nine dollar M&Ms out of the mini-bar, with warm thoughts of all of you (because they won’t melt in the presence of warm thoughts, that’s why).