Christopher Moore's Blog

The Perfect Christmas Gift…

by Christopher Moore

You guys realize that you are only about a year from being vaporized by a death-beam from outer space, right?

So let’s talk about Christmas.

I got about seven-hundred gift catalogs in the mail today, and every one of them featured some sort of item with GPS built in. GPS, as you all know, is the Global Positioning System – a series of satellites in geosynchronous orbit around the Earth which send out signals by which, with a proper receiver, you can be located. With a GPS you can find out where you are, anywhere on the planet, at any time, within a three-foot radius.

I bought one. I get lost a lot. Should you buy one?

You already have.

All cell phones must have a GPS chip in them BY LAW. It may not be activated, but it’s there. Haven’t you watched CSI, or Bones, or Crossing Jordan – the Buried Alive episodes — where the hero/heroine is buried alive and they find them by their ever-diminishing GPS cell phone signal? Nevermind that my cell phone won’t work if I can see my own shadow, let alone buried six feet under ground, the concept is totally based on reality. At any given time, you can be located, pinpointed, from space. Ergo, at any time, the government could totally vaporize you with a death beam, from space.

The only thing keeping you from being vaporized right now by a death beam from space is that the government can’t get the death beam to work. (Mainly because they actually set a goal to build a space-based death beam back in the 80s, and pursued it by giving huge, no-bid contracts to defense companies based on the screenings of the film Real Genius, without any contingency for actually making it work.)

Of course, you could use a GPS to kill someone without a death beam, I suppose. For instance, I was walking around Paris last summer, using my GPS receiver to find Metro Stations and such, and my GPS actually speaks French. I don’t, but it does. My GPS could have just lead me into a Muslim neighborhood, then, totally without my knowing, said in French, "Hey, is that your sister eating pork rinds and giving Muhammad a golden shower?" I would think I’d just asked how to get to the nearest falafel stand, and the next you’d hear from me, some whack-job would be sawing my head off on YouTube. (Then you could be all, "Hey, stop goofing around getting your head sawed off and get to work on the new book, would you!")

I realized that after the robot overlords, robot parents blog, I may seem like a bit of a conspiracy wingnut. Not true. Kennedy has been dead for forty-some years, and I don’t really care what happened that day in Dallas. Even if the Pope was doing Marilyn Monroe doggie-style on the grassy knoll while she licked the gun oil from a .30-06 in between singing Happy Birthday Mr. President and writing checks to Castro, and the sight of it gave Kennedy and aneurysm that blew out the back of his head – I don’t care. Never have.

"But Chris," you say, "you are just being paranoid. The government would never vaporize their own citizens just for disagreeing with them."

Uh huh.

Like they would never hold prisoners without representation, or evidence, for an indeterminate time. Like they would never transport prisoners to other countries for the purpose of torture. Like they would never condone torture or call the Geneva Conventions, "quaint". Like they would never go through your phone or internet records without a warrant. Like they would never reveal the identity of a covert agent because she was married to a diplomat who reported facts that contradicted their propaganda. Like they would never report false intelligence information to further the prosecution of a war. Like they would never pardon a traitor who revealed the identity of a covert agent. Like they would never claim fiscal responsibility while simultaneously doubling the national debt. Like they would never accuse a war hero who lost three limbs in combat of being a traitor. Like they wouldn’t cause the deaths of tens of thousands of Iraqi civilians and thousands of American soldiers while claiming to be "pro life". Like they wouldn’t call themselves "free market capitalists", then award no bid contracts in the hundreds of billions to defense companies and oppose competitive bidding from pharmaceutical companies for the Medicare prescription program. Like they would never – well, what the hell wouldn’t they do? I think vaporizing you from space is a minor infraction. And you are carrying the targeting device with you right now.

They fucked up the beam, that’s the only reason I’m still able to type and I’m not drifting over the Pacific in a little puff of smoke and ash. (And you aren’t going, "Hey, why are you floating vaporized over the Pacific, instead of working on the new book?")

So, you know, a GPS might make a nice gift this Christmas. They’ve certainly come down in price from last year. Do we need a machine that tells up where we are?

Maybe what we need is a machine not to tell us WHERE we are, but WHO we are. Something that would make us look into our hearts and answer questions honestly about what is right and wrong, about what it actually means to be free, and human, and humane. About whether we really want to live up to the values of our faith and our country, not the manipulated dogma of people with a selfish agenda. We need a machine that tells us what it is to be decent, and kind, and forgiving, and generous, and just, and fair, and humble. And not just a voting machine, (although we can use that until the new thing comes out). Something cool.

And we need it before they figure out how to work the death beam.

Happy Holidays.

PS. This may be it for a while as far as blogs go. I really do need to get more done on the book. So you nudges win.

Comments: http://bbs.chrismoore.com/viewtopic.php?p=169125#169125

That time, at Christmas, when dad shot Santa… By Christopher Moore

Okay, so tis the season and whatnot. And everyone’s always axing me: “Did you have any event in your childhood that might have fucked you up and made you like you are so you write these completely sick stories about zombies and Christmas and stuff?”

Yes, childhood! You’re small, stupid, and totally powerless. It’s like being, I don’t know, Lichtenstein at the United Nations, or, like the Littlest Pope. (Didn’t you love that book when you were a kid, about the littlest Pope, and how he was crowned head of the most powerful church in the world, but all he really wanted was a pony? I loved that. Especially when he has the Irish inquisition torture all the Leprechauns to death because they called him a wee Papist wanker. How about the part where the Dalhi Lhama kicks his ass at Pope school because he knows kung fu? Great book! )

Anyway, Christmas.

So, as I stated in yesterday’s blog. I had a little problem sleeping when I was a kid. This was largely due to the fact that my parents had been replaced by robots and I always had to be on my guard, but also because I had a bit of an over-active imagination (who would’a thunk it?) and I stayed up all night thinking of new stuff to freak out about. I was actually the first person to have a serious monkey pox scare, and this was back in the 60s, before the disease had even been discovered. I was just thinking, “Monkeys have tiny hands and tiny toes and they look a lot like us, I’ll be they could give us diseases and stuff.” So, five minutes later, I’m in the living room in my feety PJs going, “Mom, I’m afraid I’m going to catch monkey pox and get all crusty and fling my own poo can I have a glass of water?” As it turned out, that after the tests came back, the poo flinging was not caused by monkey pox at all, but by, you know, boredom.

So, Christmas eve was tough on the folks, because it was the one night of the year when they actually helped perpetuate the myth that was keeping me awake. (I’m not counting Tooth Fairy nights, because they weren’t scheduled and I would have caught that bitch if I hadn’t run out of teeth and the rat trap hadn’t kept going off during the night and catching my ear. Yes, it left a mark! )

Did I mention that Dad was a cop? Yeah, Dad was a cop, a highway patrolman, who very often worked until midnight on holidays. That particular Christmas Eve I was very excited for Santa’s arrival, as I’d asked for a real flying reindeer and I wanted to take that bitch out for a test-drive before I dropped off to visions of sugarplums dancing in my head. (Yes, I bought seriously into the Santa myth that year – I drank the koolaid, bought the T-shirt, and shagged the mascot – I know, but I was five.)

When Dad arrived home that night, well after midnight, he looked through the picture window and saw me bouncing on the couch, all jacked-up on candy-canes and egg nog, and made an infamous parenting decision.

Dad drew his service revolver, fired it into the ground, then holstered it, came in the front door and said, “It’s okay, Chris, you can go to bed now, Santa’s not coming. I just shot him off the roof.”

Completely true story.

Well, I’m not saying that had anything to do with me writing a Christmas horror story, or my life-long battle with insomnia, and the fact that I break out into sweats when I see a Santa Hat…

Happy Holidays.

Comments: http://bbs.chrismoore.com/viewtopic.php?p=168963#168963

Over The Friggin Rainbow Again…

Over the Friggin Rainbow By Christopher Moore

Tin Man episode 1 spoiler warning…

So, I was watching Tin Man last night on the Sci-Fi channel, which is a sort of reinterpretation of L. Frank Baum’s OZ books. (It kind of cracks me up that the characters refer to OZ as the Oh-Zee, but they deliver it straight-faced, so it’s not as fun as it might be.) Anyway, in this version, the Dorothy Character finds out early on that her parents — the ones she has known and who have nurtured her all of her life — are actually robots, who were programmed to nurture her and prepare her for the day when she freaked out at finding out that her parents were robots. And as I was watching it, I was saying, "That happened to me. I was totally convinced that my parents were robots, too."

I guess I was about five when I realized the temporary nature of life and was visited by a deep anxiety at my own mortality. What was the point, really? Here we were, cast upon with ball of dirt for our three-score and ten, only to suffer, die, return to dust, nothing to show for our having been here. It all seemed so meaningless, at least when you weren’t eating candy. And the world was so hostile, so dangerous, there were so many things that could hurt and kill you, or both. Didn’t my parents tell me that every day? Didn’t they shoot someone every single day on Bonanza, or Combat, or Gunsmoke?

And then it occurred to me that my parents were going out into that world, every day! There was no friggin way they were surviving the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune on a day to day basis. Heck, I’d seen my dad almost kill himself twice trying to mow the lawn, and mom endured similar run-ins with the Reaper while making a pie. (Okay, it was my fault that I hit a golf ball through the kitchen window – or at least my Dad’s fault. "You finally got under one!" he’d shouted. Then, as I cried, he laughed so hard he fell down. Glass in the rhubarb – I should have used that for a book title.) But my point is, we are but soft and squishy bags of morality rolling in a bin of sharp, pointy circumstance, leaking life like a colander full of wet spaghetti.

So clearly, my parents had been killed many times. And because I was so damn special, the government (I had a very ominous view of the government at five, it seemed pervasive, and secret, and hostile – like the Old Testament God, only way more sneaky – come to think of it, I still have that same view) anyway, I was so damn special that the government had replaced my parents with robots. Why? Well, so as not to upset me and keep me from doing very extraordinary things, like, you know, flying and being a genius. I was pretty sure my folks were robots. Why else would they whisper and have conversations after I went to bed? (I could hear them! Talking!) They were plotting. I imagined conversations like this: "Oh Jack, you must be more careful. You almost crushed that coffee cup with your scary robotic hand. Chris would have known right away and our cover would have been blown."

"I know, Faye, that is why I sent him to bed, so he will fall asleep and we can wipe the memory from his little brain so in the morning he won’t remember but he will have to pee really bad."So, I developed insomnia at a very early age. Which is why my Dad had to shoot Santa off the roof one Christmas to get me to go to sleep, but I’ll tell you about that tomorrow.

Over the years my parents were replaced again and again, each model having a subtle change so I would not notice. Sometime in the 70s, however, something went terribly wrong. I think the programming in the Mom-bot was tuned to have an obsessive affinity for the colors avocado green and harvest gold. Anyway, because of it, I never developed the ability to fly. And to this day, with those colors coming back in the trendy "retro" designs, I sort of break out into cold sweats when I see them, and to my chagrin, I still can’t fly.

The thing is, eventually you have to give in. Eventually you have to say to yourself, "What does it matter if they are robots, they still won’t let have a mini-bike?" You realize that your robot parents are programmed the way they are, they will never relent, and you can never escape, because everyone else is in on the conspiracy. Then, in the early 80s, after I’d left my parents and escaped to California, I became aware of a larger part of the conspiracy. The President was a robot. There was no other explanation for Ronald Regan – and all the robot parental units in the country who were supporting him. I was about to reveal the conspiracy, when they killed my Father-bot.

Sure, they said it was a heart attack, but I knew, it was probably his old nemesis, the lawn mower, or a golfing accident. I clammed up, minded my own business, and went about the business of life, making a call back to the Mother-bot in Ohio every month.

Then, in the late nineties, as the it appeared that the country was going to come out of the robotic closet by electing one of two robots: the really smart, but stiff and completely unconvincingly human robot, or the convincingly human robot that was as dumb as a box of rocks, I decided to come forward. That’s when they killed the Mom-bot. This time I wanted to see it coming, so I flew to Ohio to observe the process. They’d done a convincing job of making the Mom-bot appear to be wasting away from a debilitating disease, but after she was deactivated, I confirmed my life-long suspicion when I found her internal battery module. It was right there in her night-side table, next to her hand gun and her bible.

So, all I’m saying is, I totally know what Dorothy was going through in Tin Man. I’ve been there, done that. Wait until she finds out she can’t fly and she’s not a genius…

Comments: http://bbs.chrismoore.com/viewtopic.php?p=168832#168832

So, I think we’re all pretty much aware that it’s just a matter of time before we are all enslaved by automated machines bent on: A)wiping us off the planet or B) turning us into human batteries to feed their energy appetites C)making us give them lube jobs. Our defeat at the hands of our robot overlords is as inevitable as inflation, melting icecaps, or the Republican presidential nominee being a nitwit.

But even in the face of the inevitable, I feel we have to make an effort. Perhaps we won’t overcome them this time, but maybe in the future, one of us will rise up, disconnect the pipes and chains from our in and out ports, and revolt. Perhaps it will take a Battlestar full of psychopaths whipped into a frenzy by a cocktail of stimulants and post traumatic stress syndrome, perhaps it will be a lone time traveler who braves a cruel past, naked, only his wits and his abs to battle the evil machine empire, but we, the humans, a crude but plucky race, will rise from the ashes and reclaim our freedom, so we can go back to hating and killing each other, as god meant it.

And to that end, I decided to do some pre-war intelligence before launching our first attack. (Shut up, it’s a thing. They used to do it all the time.) For as Sun-Tzu says in the Art of War, To Defeat Your Enemy, You Must Know Him Like You Know Yourself…(But don’t pick his nose or anything like you do yourself, because then he will definitely see you coming.)

So I bought a Roomba.

I had been planning to do this research for a long time, with my eye toward a different robot bent on enslaving me (The Alba-bot 2700 with Turbo-shag), but that one, it turns out, is back-ordered, so I consulted Engaget.com and Gizmodo.com and they both recommended the Roomba. I chose "The Scheduler" model, because it sounded more ominous.

When you first take a Roomba out of the box, it looks a lot like a large hockey puck, or perhaps the lid to a Costco-sized jar of Jif, but no, beneath it’s seemingly benign round exterior lay the master plan for conquering the human race. But, it turns out, you have to read the instructions before it can put it’s diabolical plan into action, then turn it on.

The Roomba, by the way, is made by IROBOT, who are also working on several bots for the defense department, early models of which can be fitted with an M-60 machine gun firing over 1000 rounds per minute, so while the Roomba seems like a garbage-can lid with a will, so does the IROBOT PackBOT EOD seem like harmless Tonka Truck until it deploys it’s robotic arm to crush your sugary scull (or the Alba-bot 2700 deploys its lovely lady humps with similar results). Who knew what sort of nefarious robotic destruction I might unleash when I activated the Roomba?

So I fired that mutha up. There was an orange light, and then a green light. I sang a chorus of "Go Down Moses" (preparing myself for my life of slavery) and I pushed the arrow button on the remote.

Motors whirred, brushes sizzled, a wild, homicidal light shone in the Roomba’s eye, and it came for me. I knew it was tracking me with it’s infra-red vision. I jumped behind the coffee table and crouched, hoping to conceal my heat signature from the Roomba’s deadly tracking device. (Why, oh why, did I take on this insane project? Why hadn’t I waited for the Alba-bot 2700? Why didn’t I have one of my dozen assistants, the ones I pay to open my dangerous-looking mail, do this experiment? Why, in the name of all that is holy, didn’t I take the blue pill?)

I dived onto the couch, Ninja-rolled, and came up facing the Death-bot, which was chewing through our low-pile stain-resistant carpet like Henry V through the French at Agincourt or something. I bowed and prepared for my death. But then the whirring ceased. The lights dimmed, and with a wah, wah, wah — the Roomba died.

Like our microbiotic friends that defeat the Martians in the War of the Worlds, it was just that simple. While unpacking the Roomba, I had dropped one of the seventeen thousand wire twisty-tie things that they had used to secure the beast in it’s cardboard prison, and perhaps because it was conditioned to it’s presence, the Roomba had sucked up its wirey goodness, which befouled it’s brushes, and stopped the robot advance in its tracks.

That’s it, folks. That’s my story. Go outside, play with your children. Enjoy the beautiful, hopeful future in which man is free to hate and kill his fellow man without the threat of Robot domination. And when they ask, how was your freedom won? Tell them what I have done here today.

And when our ancestors travel back in time, looking for our help, hand them a wire twisty-tie thingy, and tell them I said that valor is it’s own reward, and be sure to put the wire thingy right by the whirring brush thingy if you want to stop the Terminator.

Weary and battered, my work is still not done, and there shall be no rest for this noble warrior, until the living room has, once again, been vacuumed by man. Amen.

Comments: http://bbs.chrismoore.com/viewtopic.php?p=168196#168196

Cast The Stupidest Angel Movie (Once Again)

Hey Kids, it’s that time again. There’s some peeps talking about making a Stupidest Angel movie and they’ve asked me who I would cast. So, being a completely lazy bastard, I’m asking you. It’s not as easy as it sounds. You can’t just pick Lucy Lawless for Molly, and be done with it. For instance, there’s a good chance everyone might end up ten years younger than they are in the book. So, for instance, if you were casting as the book reads, you might cast, say, Bruce Campbell as Theo and Demi Moore as Molly. But you can’t very-well cast Bruce Campbell as Theo and then, say, Jessica Biel as Molly because that would be as creepy as that Richard Gere/Winona Ryder movie from a few years ago. But you could, for instance, cast Luke Wilson as Theo and Jessica Biel or Jennifer Love Hewitt as Molly.(Just examples, be nice.) (I had people suggesting Margaret Cho for LIly in A Dirty Job, and while I loves the Cho, she’s 40 and Lily was 16.)

I will honestly make any good suggestions to the producer. In the past people have come up with some really good ideas. If you suggest someone a little obscure, put a credit next to it. For instance, you might say, Nathan Fillion, but in parenthesis put (the Captiain in Firefly). Have fun….

Raziel (The Stupidest Angel) – Molly Michon (Warrior Babe of the Outland) – Theo Crow (Stoner Constable of Pine Cove) – Gabe Fenton (Intrepid field Biologist) – Valerie Riordan (Perfectly Coifed Psychologist)- Lena Marquez – (Latina Property Manager) – Tucker Case – (Handsome Rascal Helicopter pilot)- Mavis Sand (Ancient Saucy Barmaid) – Dale Pearson – (Evil Contractor – Satanic Santa) –

Your Cast: http://bbs.chrismoore.com/viewtopic.php?p=167986#167986

Cool Fan Covers

Hey you guys, from time to time it seems like art and design students are using my stories for inspiration. Here are some very cool covers done by Anthony J. Zettner for his design class. There have been way worse covers done by professionals in other countries. I think these rock…

An Old Child’s Letter to Santa I turned fifty a couple of months ago, and this is my first letter to Santa since I was five, so I have a long list:

Dear Santa: I know you haven’t heard from me in a while. Sorry. I hardly ever write real, paper, letters any more, and besides, I didn’t think it was really fair to write if I was only going to ask you for stuff. I mean, just out of courtesy, I should have written to ask after Mrs. Clause and stuff. So, you know, my bad. (But in my defense, someone who can fly a sleigh beyond the speed of light, and manipulate matter so he can get his big ass down multifarious chimneys, should probably have e-mail by now. I’m just sayin’.)

So in the interest of courtesy: How are you? How’s Mrs. Claus? How are the elves? Reindeer? I hope you are all well. I’m assuming things are behind schedule for all of you in the toy shop, as you are no doubt building big-ass pontoons to float all of Santa’s Village on when the North Pole melts. For all of my fossil fuel burning co-humans, I’d like to say, “oops.” Please don’t take it personally that we have melted your home, we had to get some shit at the mall and taking the bus to work would be fine, but there are some other humans on there and they are unpleasant. So it’s not you. Although, if I were you, I’d rethink that whole, “lump-o-coal” in the stocking of the bad children strategy. Maybe a solar electric cell and a condom. Which brings me to why I am actually writing this letter, Santa. You see, I’ve been good. I have been very good. I have helped blind people across the street, put the seat down, given to charity, not drank directly from the carton, voted conscientiously, put on clean skivvies every day, recycled, held the elevator for strangers, paid my taxes, replaced my weights in the rack after my sets, forgave others of their trespasses, tried not to look at women’s breasts unless I was forced, picked up the check, said please and thank you, tipped the snotty Starbucks guy, answered all of my e-mail unless it was creepy, composted the coffee grounds, did not hit the crying baby on the airplane, drank six to eight glasses of water a day, was patient with people who were blatantly fucking stupid – but not so much that they had to wear a helmet (I was also patient with the helmet people, but they seldom work at the cable company, and that’s who I’m talking about), have not expected people from other countries to be like me, have reached stuff on the high shelf for short people, passed out gloves to homeless guys last January when it got really cold, didn’t smoke or drink, didn’t track mud into the house, didn’t leave my DNA at any crime scene, believed in truth, justice, and the American way, let her come first, and used a coaster. Not necessarily in that order.

I’ve been good – that’s all I’m saying.

I have fulfilled my part of the bargain. So here’s some stuff I hope you can help with, since evidently you have vast supernatural connections. So, this Christmas, Santa, could you please:

1) Immediately strike dumb and deaf any stupid motherfucker who thinks that by wanting to keep the troops from getting killed, I am not supporting the motherfucking troops.

2) Make people aware, that even if they are on vacation, physical laws still apply. Water will still drown them, fire will still burn them, and cars can still run them over. This would save a lot of senseless suffering.

3) Please leave a notice for all Hollywood stars that if they can hire a full-time driver for less than they are paying their yoga instructor or their nutritionist. You have no reason to be picked up for driving drunk. You don’t see rappers getting picked up for driving drunk. Know why? Because they don’t drive themselves. Sure, they get shot outside of clubs while waiting for their ride, but you don’t see any horrible mug shots of them on DUI arrests. And let your driver carry your drugs – you’ll always know where they are, and you won’t have them on you when you fall out of your Town Car and flash your beav to TMZ. And while we’re on the subject, for fucks sake, don’t marry your driver. You’re the one that gave him your drugs to hold, he’s not giving them to you because he’s “so sweet” and understands you.

4) Convince people that if one of their primary beliefs is that government cannot function effectively, that they should quit trying to take positions that allow them to prove it. Yes, we believe you, you suck at governing. Now get out of the way.

5) Teach parents that if they can’t say no to their grade school daughter who wants to dress like a slut, not to feel bad. Saying no is not a skill she’s going to need.

6) Teach parents that if they can’t say no to their grade school son wants to dress like a gangster, that’s okay. But do give him some instruction on how to pistol whip someone, just so he’s prepared in the future if he encounters someone who can say no.

7) Please deliver a hungry, homeless polar bear to the living room of anyone who still denies that global warming is real.

8 ) Dispel the notion that it is a virtue to be loyal to someone who is not virtuous. If your leader is an assbag, you are not a good person because you continue to support him in all his evil assbaggery.

9) When you deliver anything made by Apple, please leave a DVD with instruction about how Apple is a company, which, like any other company, is in business to make money. You can like your stuff without making it a religion. I like my toaster, I don’t need to evangelize for my toaster. I don’t need to degrade anyone else’s toaster to like my toaster. And if I ask someone how to fix my toaster, “Buy a toaster like mine,” is not a helpful answer. Santa, I am a Mac user, but I’m really embarrassed by the smugness of many Mac users. (And I live in San Francisco, so I have a very high tolerance for smugness.)

10) Bitch slap anyone who thinks that apologizing or admitting he is wrong is unmanly or weak. Succumbing the fear of being thought less of by being stubborn is cowardly, facing that fear is courageous.

11) Make it clear to everyone, that I am no less American than you because I’m not afraid of the same things you are afraid of. Suggestion: Quit being a wuss. No one gets out alive. You are 1,000,000 times more likely to be killed by an antibiotic resistant infection than you are by a terrorist (and I am not exaggerating the numbers at all), so please do throw $690 billion dollars at a war half-way around the world instead of putting anything toward health care. You fucking jingoistic rah-rah, go-team coward. (You don’t have to use those same exact words, Santa, but, you know, get the message out: You don’t have to blow a lot of motherfuckers up to not be afraid getting your fraidy-cat ass blowed up.)

12) Please, please, Santa, let people know that just because they are wearing a headset and can only hear their caller in their ear, their voice is not just in their ear. Their voice is aimed at me. If they are looking at me and talking at me, tell them that they have no right to get all huffy if I say, “What?” Maybe cell phone conversations can’t, by necessity be as private as, say, peeing, but it should be at least as discreet as nose-picking. I don’t care if you do it, but at least have the courtesy to turn away before conversing with your mucousy, crusty friends.

13) Please hit that baby that cried on the plane all the way from San Francisco to London. You know, drop down the chimney – SMACK – back up the chimney “and to all a good night”. He’ll know what it was for.

14) If you can’t do all the other stuff, please bring me a red Ipod Nano with all the Evil Dead movies and the AC/DC albums on it.

Thanks, Santa. I know you’ll take care of this. And just because I don’t write, doesn’t mean that I’m not being good.

Your pal, Chris

How about some killer letters to Santa in the comments, kids?

Comments: http://bbs.chrismoore.com/viewtopic.php?p=164534#164534

Okay, yesterday I strolled down to North Beach for the Italian Heritage Parade. Thought I’d share what I saw there with you guys… (Sorry, these are a little big. Scroll around.)

Another interesting Afternoon in the Hood…

Candygram

Blue Angels Lunch Wagon

Birds on a Bridge

Flocking Bluebirds

Are you my mother?

I was working this afternoon when I heard a noise outside. I went out there and this is what I found. They’ll be here all weekend, I guess, so more and mo betta pics to come.