Christopher Moore's Blog

What we do around the authorguy house on Easter morning….


And this from a happy reader:

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Chapter 7 – Prom Night and the Delicious Badonk of Death
Fujikasan totally busted me today for skipping invisibility class today. Thing is, I had been skipping all semester, but Fujikasan just thought I was really good. I was going to get an A, but Saki didn’t show up today to say my name at roll call. What a tool. He scratched himself while poisoning his shuriken stars in Kitchen Arts class and was all paralyzed and foaming at the mouth and stuff all afternoon. I may appear out of nowhere in his dorm room and give him the Praying Mantis Melvin of Suffering Wedginess if he lives. That or put his hand in warm water when he’s sleeping and make him pee the futon.
So, I’m going to ask Mariko to the prom. I know a lot of guys say she’s a skank, but it turns out that the rumor of her taking on the whole basketball team last year was totally bogus. It turns out that she did take them on, but she didn’t bone them, she killed them. Most of the varsity she used the viper sword and silent slaying method, but she took out the whole JV team with just nunchucks and a Motorala Razr. She’s so hawt! I just hope she doesn’t kill me with her corsage pin, which is what happened to the guy who took her to homecoming. When she says duck, she means it. I guess he thought she was ordering.
The dance is on the east wall of Toyota castle. There won’t be any music, as we are doing the whole thing under the noses of the guards, but Mariko has the most amazing booty when she’s hanging from a grappling hook, and there’s even a sliver of a moon we might have eye contact, or, maybe, you know, some Humping Tiger, Moaning Dragon, if you know what I mean. It’s formal, so I guess we’ll all be in black again. At midnight all the seniors are going to slip into the castle and kill the Emperor and his court, then there’s supposed to be a totally fly after party in the basement of the dojo, and Yashica is going to throw a whole handful of X into the punch.
Speaking of Yashica, it looks like he’s going to have to repeat senior year. I told him not to eat a bean burrito the night before stealth class. It’s not enough to be silent and invisible, they can’t smell you coming, either. Better than what happened to Toshiba, though. How many times did I tell him, just because they call it the “death of a thousand knives” doesn’t mean it’s going to be exactly a thousand. Keep jumping, even if you think you counted a thousand. Master Sushi transferred him to the killer robot program and they’re going to fit him with rocket feet or something so he’s not totally useless, but it’s not the same as being a real ninja.
I’m totally stoked to graduate and go out into the real world. My dad already got me a summer internship at a big law firm where I guess I’ll be in the mail room. Mostly just sorting and poisoning witnesses, but it will look good on the resume. We’re not allowed to throw our hats at graduation this year. Three or four parents got decapitated by last year’s class and ruined it for everyone. I just hate the part where you have to snatch your diploma from the dean’s open hand before he can close it. I just can’t do it. He’s too fast. I’ve decided the only way I’m actually going to be able to graduate is if I take his hand along with the diploma, and I totally rock with a short sword, so I hope Master Suzuki doesn’t mind when they transfer him to Pirate school next year because of his shiny new hook.
My biggest worry is that I have to sit next to Dave. He just doesn’t seem like one of the group. I don’t mean to sound racist, but, he’s like totally Western. He sucks at everything. In invisibility class he can’t even get translucent, and twice last week he dropped a smoke bomb in the men’s room when he was trying to get his unit out of his pants. Next thing you know, we’re all clinging to the ceiling, looking only like shadows out of the corner of your eye, just like we were trained, except that we’re weeing all over ourselves. I think he might be like a spy or something for the fucking pirates. And that’s only the beginning of the mystery, today in the hall…
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The Electric Rhino – An Unwritten Romance
Chapter 5 – The Test Drive
His forearms were like braided leather cords, as cordy and leathery as those lanyard thingies they used to make at summer camp. Penny loved to watch Bert use a screwdriver, he was the master of her heart, and her sex, just like he was the very master of that relatively uncomplicated tool. In fact, that’s how she liked to think of him, as an uncomplicated tool – with cordy, leathery sweaty man arms.
“Okay, are you on?” said Bert. “I’m going to plug it in.” His voice was pure sex, almost as if he had been gargling with male hormones – she longed to hear his hard, male, testosteroni voice.
“Wait,” she said, reticent now, not sure how she looked atop the massive, armored beast. Was she feminine enough? Did these leg irons make her butt look big? Was it wrong to serve rose’ with tater tots? “What about the garage door. Are you sure it will hold this time?”
Bert grinned at her, a coy, dazzling, sexy man-grin, like a baboon who had just ripped the arm off a baby chimp with his teeth and was gnawing it with great irony. “Does baby need some more lube, huh?”
Penny felt herself blushing at the truth, then held out her hand while Bert emptied the tube into her hand…
“Okay,” said Penny with a giggle, feeling the potential power humming between her thighs like a big sack full of epileptic squirrels that you just happen to be straddling. “Plug that bitch in!”

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So, today I was checking my e-mail, and I clicked on a flashing AOL article about Barack Obama’s minister being a bit of a loony. The article didn’t say loony, but that was my interpretation. There was no new information, just that Rev. Wright said some stuff that seemed, oh, a little loony, in front of a church full of people. I’m sure that’s never happened before, and I’m sure it will never happen again, but it turned out, this one time, that a preacher said some loony stuff.
But in the comments below the article — and there were about 50 pages of them, all of which I read — there were no fewer than six people who were convinced that Barack Obama was the Antichrist. Zoinks! Obviously, Barack has hit it out of the park with those folks.
Now I, myownself, have been accused of being the Antichrist. Back in the day, when I was a DJ on the Central Coast of California, a minister sent a letter to the FCC complaining that I was the Antichrist. I immediately responded by asking for a raise, because I was only making six bucks an hour, and I’m sure that the Antichrist gets more, or should. Still, there is a chance that that minister may have been a bit of a loony as well.
But now I really feel that Barack and I have something in common. We have both been accused of being the beast. Actually, I have been accused of being the beast twice, but that second time was a girl who was watching me eat ribs, and really, I wasn’t that beastlike, there was just a lot of sauce on those ribs, so shut up.
I only hope that tonight, Michelle does a detailed examination of Barrack, looking for the mark of the beast. Just for safety’s sake. I know I had my girlfriend at the time do just such an examination, and she thought for a minute that she had found the mark of the beast, but it turned out that it was just the spot on my calf where Bret Mairs stabbed me with a pencil in 10th grade and the lead was still in there. So, not really the mark of the beast — more the mark of that prick, Bret Mairs, for which there is no prophesy.
Anyway, even if she doesn’t find the mark of the beast, because, let’s face it, it could be in Roman numerals (because the prophesy did come from a guy in a Roman prison) I thought I’d consult the Book of Revelation for some other telltale signs that Barack is the beast.
First, there has to be a book with Seven Seals, and this book can only be opened by the Lion of Judah. (Rastafarians believe that Hallie Salassie, the long-dead king of Ethiopia is the Lion of Judah, but it’s a fairly good bet that they are high, so that is totally not one of the signs of the beast). So then the Lion of Judah turns into a lamb with seven eyes and seven horns and opens the seals.
Quickly, let’s go through the seals — what happens when you open them:
1)out comes a white horse, guy with a bow and a crown
2) out comes a red horse, guy who can take peace from the Earth
3) out comes a black horse, guy with a balance, measuring wheat and barley for a penny
4) out comes a pale horse (no color specified, but I like to think pale blue) guy who is Death, with a guy who is Hell on the back.
5) out comes those that were slain for the word of god. (Not clear, really, who they mean, but I’m guessing, Romans, so, if you’re planning a trip to Rome, get that bitch out of the way before the Apocalypse.)
6) Out comes a earthquake, the sun goes black as a sack of hair (that’s what it says, “as black as a sack of hair”, so I’m assuming, you know, no blonds in the sack) the moon becomes as blood, and stars fall from the sky like figs shaken out of a tree and every mountain and island moved out of their places. (Well duh, stars are friggin huge. I’d say, you’d only need one small to medium star to fall like a fig before everything was pretty much moved, except my car, which if I have a parking space in San Francisco, and it’s not street-sweeping night, there is no fucking way I’m moving, even for the Apocalypse.)
7)Nothing comes out on seal seven, but stuff happens: “Rich men, mighty men, and bondmen, and free men all hide in the mountains, trying to avoid the wrath of the Lamb.” (Okay, this is clearly an anticlimactic seal. After stars falling out of the sky, death on horseback, and all those slain for God’s word, and here you want to think inquisitions and crusades, that’s a crashing buttload of souls, this is really the WTF? seal. I hope that if Barack is the Antichrist he improves the Seventh Seal, because it clearly sucks the ass of all the other seals. )
Quite the book! I’m quite convinced now, that I am not the Antichrist, even though I wear the indelible mark of Bret Mairs. Because none of my books can do any of those things, even if I could get a seven eyed lamb to open them. (But if we can hire one, my signings would rock, wouldn’t they!?!?)
So then seven angels come down, and the stuff they bring is even worser than the seals.
Anyway, I was going to try to go through Revelation and see if I might be the antichrist, or where a bunch of people might have been certain that Obama is the antichrist, and I gotta tell you, when it comes to imagination, I am no lightweight, but there is no way you can get that a skinny guy from Chicago is the beast from Revelation, no matter how you interpret it. I have to wonder if any of these people have ever read Revelation. For one thing, it’s completely incoherent. At least in the Gospel’s and the Epistles of the New Testament, there is some semblance of order (although in many of the Epistles, it appears that the author is just making up Christianity as he goes along, which in the case of Paul, is what he is doing.)
Anyway, I know this has been going on for a while, but I do have a point. Barack Obama is probably not the antichrist, but if he was, wouldn’t you have to be a person of faith to believe that? And if you were a person of faith, wouldn’t you be pretty stoked that all the prophesies were coming to pass so you could be raptured up to chill with God and Jesus and the angels and stuff? That’s right. And if he was, wouldn’t that sort of be inevitable, because it’s foretold in the book of Revelation, and you don’t really think that was written by a lunatic, which it clearly was to those of us not “of faith” or not fucking stupid (and no, I’m not saying the people of faith are stupid, I’m saying that people who believe the book of Revelation is coming about are stupid.). (Don’t make me write a whole blog about the destruction of the city of Babylon, which Revelation goes on about at length as a big part of the Apocalypse but which hasn’t really been a viable city for, oh, 1800 years or so.)
Here’s the thing that I’m really saying. Nearly all of the negative posts, the ones that were worried about the Antichrist or other stuff all used phrases like, “it scares the hell out of me” or “what scares me is” or “the frightening thing is” and folks, even if Barack Obama is the antichrist (and if he is I am totally not moving my car, because I voted for him), or Hillary is the whore or Babylon (which I think would look cool on a campaign button ) or John McCain is really the grandfather on The Waltons, you shouldn’t be using fear as the main mechanism for making your political decisions. First, what are you afraid of? The new president will get us into a war, the economy will tank, we’ll become disrespected around the world and our currency’s value will plummet, we’ll be attacked by terrorists, the price of oil will triple and the national debt will skyrocket in the face of unprecedented government spending and borrowing? As our clueless leader once said, “Mission Accomplished.” See, you have nothing to fear.
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Tuesday night I finished my 11th book. Truman Capote once said, that finishing a book is like taking your child out in the back yard and shooting it. I don’t think that people get what he meant unless they’ve actually written a book. Everyone says, "Aren’t you going to have a party! Dance naked! Get drunk and shag the cat!?" And you have to say, "No, not any more than a normal Tuesday."

Yes, it’s a relief that you’re going to make your deadline, and they you have, indeed, achieved the goal of finishing. But you don’t know whether it’s any good yet, and suddenly the thing that drove you, that you woke up to and went to sleep to for two years, isn’t there any more. Imagine that you’re Ahab, and you pursue Moby Dick to the ends of the earth — brave storms, disease, mutiny, but when you finally catch up to him you find he’s dead on the beach and birds have been feeding on him for weeks. What do you do tomorrow?

So, yes, I’m stoked the book is done, but it simply opens up this huge arc of limitless ways in which I can fuck up. And I have to make a dentist appointment. And come up with ideas for three new books, and a comic book series, and — well, there are worse things. Much worse. It doesn’t help that my printer crapped out, so I wasn’t able to start my edits. (I edit in hard copy.) So I had to wander around the house going, "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit." I ended up reframing a picture I’ve been thinking about reframing for, oh, ten years. And changing out all the light bulbs in my office to compact fluorescents. I know, pathetic, but until I find the next white whale, I just have to stay out of trouble.

I’ll let you guys know about release dates and more as I know more. And as soon as my editor and I think it’s prudent, I’ll post a chapter here.

Onward! Chris

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The Used Cars of Government

A Ford dealer in Virgina is advertising that they are selling John Kerry’s used Hybrid SUV, trying to get more money because of the notoriety. Here are a few more cars owned by political celebrities that are one the market:

Carl Rove’s 2006 Ford Tarus, Low Miles, minor brimstone burns in seat covers, fumigation has made the weasel odor nearly undetectable.

Dick Morris’s 2005 Jaguar XP – Leased return. Minor slime stains on driver seat and steering wheel. Lot’s of extras, including dead hooker in trunk.

Hillary Clinton’s Ford F-250 Dually Ambulance — seats 300 million. Room to hang 50 pants suits.

John McCain’s 2003 Hummer H2 – perfect running order except right blinker is stuck on and GPS forgets where it’s going. Special on-board "pee-buddy" lavoratoy attachment to minimize rest stops. Cannot be licensed in South Carolina. AM radio does not function, but instead makes "la, la,la,la I can’t hear you" sound when tuned to talk stations.

Mike Huckabee’s – 1993 Dodge Ram Pick-up – fuel system converted run on wood and human body fat due to previous owners disbelief that dinosaurs existed and therefore could decay into petroleum. Special radiator modified for boiling squirrels. Owner’s manual rewritten to match the Bible. (Note: Oil viscosity and tire pressure recommendations can be found in Leviticus, after section on how to clean the remains of adulterers and shellfish eaters out of the tire treads.)

Barack Obama’s 2004 Buick Century – Hybrid engine modified to run on hope with charm back-up. Not really practical, but dammit, you just feel like it will get you where you’re going…

George Bush’s 2005 Ford F-150 Pick-up. Tons of special features. ½ miles to gallon, no clean air attachments, bulletproof glass, automatic transmission shifter denotes, D-Go, R-Backwards, P-Okay, you can get out now. "Breathe" "George" spelled out in big letters on visor. Special four-wheel drive system lubricated with the crushed, burnt bodies of Iraqi babies (it’s okay, they hated our freedom).

Hey kids, there’s only one AuthorGuy event this Winter/Spring and it’s next Sunday, Feb 10 at the Capitola Book Cafe in, uh, Capitola, at 5:30. I’ll be talking about You Suck.

Here’s their website: http://www.capitolabookcafe.com/

I owed these guys a favor because they’ve supported my books for years and they got aced out of the hardcover tour, so that’s why there and not the BooksNShit by your house in Pig’s Penis, Alabama or any of the eight-kergillion places I won’t be, that and because I’m still trying to get a book written.

But, if you’re in the Santa Cruz area, cruise on by.

The Worst Job in the World!

Okay, the headlines say that they just killed the number 3 man in Al Qaeda. Isn’t this like the 25th time they’ve killed the number 3 man in Al Qaeda?

So, I guess there’s going to be an opening on Craig’s List tomorrow. Right next to add for the drummer for Spinal Tap.

They probably don’t even learn their name any more. Hey, who are you? I’m the new number 3 guy? Really? Nice sneakers, can I have them, uh, you know, when you’re done with them?

Okay, everyone, we’re having a big Valentine’s Day dance. The girls are going to wear the sexy burkhas, so you know, bring your camera, because there are definitely going to be some hot nostril shots to be had. Post your best shots on DeathtoAmericaHoesGoneWild.Com So, everyone who can make the dance, take one step forward. Not so fast number 3. Oh, don’t look so sad. Whose gonna have 72 virgins? That’s right, my man. And those bitches will totally show nostril, mustache, the whole fuckin’ nine. You’re a lucky man.

Hi 3, what’s up? I was wondering about this new Iphone, can I get the extended warranty? No, you don’t want that. Will Apple make this totally obsolete in a year? Well, yeah, but don’t worry about it. So do my minutes roll over. Sure. Yeah, why not? Hey, I’d love to chat more, but would you, you know,stand over there? I gotta check something in the back. (Hey, Amhad, what’s the blast perimeter for a Predator Drone Missile? Really? Fuck.) Dude, you might want to check over at the AT&T store. Just a sec. (Ahmed, how far away is Steve’s Falafel Stand? Really? Cool, could you help this guy, I’m going to go to lunch.) So, enjoy that phone. Ahmad is going to help you with that.

.

So, dude, did you buy a number in the pool? What pool? You buy dates on the calendar. A drachma a square, and if Number 3 eats it on your day, you win the pot, Allah willing. But I’m Number 3? Really? Yeah? So, you wanna buy a square, you know, for the kids?

So we’re all sitting in my car, Smoking a spliff, and hating their freedom and shit. You know. And I look over and like there’s this new guy sitting next to Lil’ Moho. And I’m like, “Who are you?” And he’s like, “I’m the new number 3.” And I’m like, “Dude, just get the fuck out of my car. I just washed it.” So we all jump out and run, but too fucking late. Whoom! And when I look up, my car is completely disintegrated. So does my policy cover that? What do you mean, am I going to have number 3 in the car again? I wouldn’t have let him in the first place if I’d known who he was? What? Well, yeah, he had a number on his shirt, but I thought he was just a Knick’s fan. What? No? Hey, fuck you and your Limey infidel Gecko, too. How you like it if I come over there and saw his little green head off on the YouTube? Huh? Huh? Well I could get a ride, don’t you worry about that. I’d get there

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“Why can’t we all just get along?”

When Los Angeles was burning and people were being beaten to death in the streets, Rodney King, the alleged crack-head who set the whole thing off by repeatedly turning the other cheek while cops wailed on him with nightsticks had the outrageous temerity to ask, “Why can’t we all just get along?”

It’s a joke to us now, part of cultural literacy, a metaphor for naivety, simplicity, and irony. The man who was pinataed with batons asks: Why can’t we all just get along?

As Pooh said when confronted with the question: “Tigger Please!”

Yet, as the country rolls into February 5th, Super Tuesday in the primaries, I find myself asking the same question: “Why can’t we all just get along?” Why does every news story have to have a liberal and conservative take? Why does every politician have to react from a pre-set template of ideology that denies that anyone not of his party might be effective at anything. Why is the political process one of demonization, character assassination, and vilification, rather than one of debate, reasoning, and modulated advice and consent? Why, in fact, can’t we even agree on the problems, let alone the solutions? And why does one political party have to choose the realm of their expertise and advocacy, and not only refuse to play in the other’s milieu, but deny it even exists.

I can wax long and vicious about who I think the bad guys and good guys are in this process, and it’s certainly no secret that I believe that if you continually profess that government is not effective, and can not function for the benefit of the people, that you will, when governing, do so in a way that proves your belief.

But I don’t want to talk about that here. What I want to talk about is Rodney King’s question. “Why can’t we all just get along?” Are we not all Americans? Do we not all want our nation to be safe, and prosperous, and clean, and beautiful, and just, and smart, and healthy? If, essentially, we can agree that we all want those things, is there any way that we might pursue those goals, keep them in sight, and debate our different strategies toward achieving them without insisting that anyone who disagrees with us is sub-human?

I recognize, as I write that, that I have almost never used George Bush’s name without following it with the phrase, “that evil fucktard”, so my Rodneyness is somewhat in question, but I’m not talking about yesterday, or even the beginning of this sentence, I’m talking about tomorrow, next year, forever and ever. Is there any chance that we can stop declaring war on each other, war on concepts, and perhaps even drop war as a metaphor? Is there a chance, that we can all just get along? Yes. Yes, I think we can.

I am hopeful. I am Rodney King. I am naive, and self-deluded, and irrelevant and irony stalks me like a snickering wolf, but next Tuesday I will vote for Barak Obama.

I just wanted you guys to know why.

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So, you guys have heard me mention Tim Sandlin in reviews and the blog in the past, a very talented novelist from Wyoming. Well, on January 24th, Tim has a new book out called Rowdy in Paris, which is about a bull rider who chases down two French girls who do him, do him wrong, and take off to Paris with his only championship bullrider belt buckle. Rowdy takes his prize money and goes after them. If you like cowboys, or Paris, or just a fun read, you need to buy this book.

http://www.amazon.com/Rowdy-Paris-Tim-Sandlin/dp/1594489742/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1200549134&sr=8-1

You see, Tim’s publisher has put him on notice, and if this book doesn’t sell some copies, Tim is going to get throwed out in the snow, along with his adorable little 7 year old daughter, Leila. It’s really fucking sad. It’s 0 degrees in Wyoming, and she’s a skinny kid, so I don’t give her two hours before she’s bear bait. But don’t let that influence you.

Here’s my cover blurb, which I sent Tim but he didn’t use, so, you know, if his daughter freezes, not my fault. That’s all I’m saying…

Rowdy in Paris may not be the first existential cowboy novel, and it’s probably not the last, but it’s certainly the funniest — and what with meaning being as slippery as a frog in forty-weight, we can sure as hell use the funny. — Christopher Moore Author of Lamb and A Dirty Job

Sad shivering kid eaten by bears, or a new funny book. Your choice.