Christopher Moore's Blog

Spotting the Beta Male

There are no distinct physical features identifying the Beta Male — they tend to come in all shapes and sizes, although usually smaller at birth than in adulthood. There is, however, a dominant ear-hair gene associated with the Beta Male, that will out them. All human males will develop some ear hair in life — with Beta Males it often appears in great tufts at puberty, and is believed to have evolved to help facilitate early comb-over strategies. Most Beta males will disguise this feature by shaving or depilatory until after they are married, and often a beta male who is passing can be spotted by small gobs of shaving cream in his aural openings.

In the gym you will usually find the Beta Male fussing with his Ipod headphones rather than actually doing any exercise, and offering a “spot” to Alpha Males on the bench press. The strategy here is two-fold. First, the Beta, who has often come “commando” to the gym, gets to stand astraddle the alpha, who, while pressing up the weight of a small bus, must stare up at the sweating scrotum of the Beta, who thus achieves a passive-aggressive dominance over the Alpha, if not inducing full-on nausea; and second, when the Beta encourages the Apha to do “just one more rep”, to the point of exhaustion, he is assured that he, in no way, can actually lift the weight off off the Alpha at failure, thus causing death or injury to the dominant male. An accomplished Beta male can incapacitate two or three Alphas a day in this manner, and keep his heart-rate in the aerobic target area just from the shouting and running away.

Spotting the Beta in traffic is easy. He’s the one in front of you, in your lane, going just enough over the speed limit to not allow you to righteously flip him off or call him an ass-bag, but not quite fast enough to actually get you where you’re going on time. The Beta style of driving, or the RID method (Righteous Indignation Deprivation) is a major cause of road rage, freeway shootings, and alcohol consumption among other drivers. The good news is that when you finally snap and crash into a Beta’s two-year old Camry, his records will be handy and his insurance will be current (the Beta’s notorious fear of irony keeps him on top of his insurance premiums regardless of his financial state.)

Basically, Beta Males are everywhere. Although no one has actually done a survey, it’s safe to say that nearly seven our of ten men (and two of out ten women), are beta Males. As stated above, most Betas are not even aware of their status, and certainly wouldn’t admit it if they were. Here’s a good rule of thumb, though, if you are male reading this article, and are not simultaneously getting laid, then there’s a good chance that you fall in the Beta category. Other good indicators are that you carry your sex junk on the outside, or you have at one time or another, left the toilet seat up after doing your business. If you find yourself denying that you could be a Beta, well, denial is the butter on the Beta bread, so to speak. Although your reactions after denial will be shame, self-loathing, and a need to ask your wife or girlfriend to confirm your denial, it’s best to resist giving into any of these urges. Better to sit back, proud but not smug, watch the action, and calmly wait for the world to turn your way – the Way of the Beta.

Side Bar ARE YOU A BETA MALE? — A QUIZ Check any statement below that is true:

I: q Wear my naughty-bits on the outside. q Drive just a couple of miles per hour over the speed limit. q Surreptitiously feel sad when a hot actress marries. q Have initiated a cover-up? q Find it hard to think in the presence of bosoms. q Pay my insurance premiums on time, no matter what. q Shave my ears regularly. q Have left the toilet seat up? q Have apologized after sex? q Have apologized after sex with a partner? q Own a Corvette, a Monster Truck, or a Penis Pump q Think women should receive equal pay for equal work. q Feel guilty about not working as hard as most women.

If you checked any two above, then congratulations – and for god’s sake, hide this article before your wife or girlfriend sees it.

The Beta Male as a Mate Although his very existence proves that the Beta Male is successful in mating, the natural habitat of the young Beta Male is heartbreak. He doesn’t know that he will eventually prevail, and that in the end, most females will settle, and it is the Beta upon whom she inevitably settles. Almost no Beta will reach his twenties without having had the object of his affection snatched from his grasp by an Alpha male, then when she is cast off, finding himself used as a cushion for her landing and the unwitting springboard for her next launch at the Alpha bachorlorama. The Beta is the trampoline the female world refers to as just friends. Thus, over the eons, the Beta Male has developed a highly developed sense of irony. (Not rhetorical irony, the gentler cousin of sarcasm, but twist of fate, bite you in the ass irony.) Like the bat who can sense the presence of the mosquito by the micro-turbulence caused by the insect’s wings, so can the Beta Male sense a heartbreak coming from the moment he first spots a woman. It is not uncommon to see a Beta Male pulling away from the drive-through window at Wendy’s, jaw clenched, fighting tears in reaction to the sub-textual rejection contained in the head-set girl’s, “Would you like catsup?” It is only among Beta Males that, “Hi, so how are you going to ruin my life?” is considered an acceptable pick-up line.

The ability to visualize failure that served the Beta Male’s survival early on, can undermine him in the modern mating ritual, if for no other reason than it erodes his self-confidence. Consequently, to compensate, Beta Males, may be notorious liars when it comes to dealing with women, and they represent an inordinately high percentage of the purchasers of hair pieces, foundation garments, erectile dysfunction drugs, cosmetic surgery (the chief procedure being the man-boob reduction, or “bilateral moob-ecotomy”), penis pumps, and Corvettes – virtually any accoutrement short of a personality transplant to hide their Beta-ness and make them appear more man-tastic than they could ever be naturally.

Although he has a capacity for deceit – the beta male, if nothing else, is loyal. He makes great husband as well as a great best friend. He will help you move, bring you soup when you are sick, and hide your drugs and porn from your parents should you be unexpectedly killed or incarcerated. He makes a great house sitter, especially if you aren’t attached to your house pets. Your girlfriend is generally in safe hands with a beta male, unless, of course, she is a complete slut. (In fact, the complete slut through history may be exclusively responsible for the survival of the beta male gene, for loyal as he may be, the beta male is helpless in the face of charging, unimaginary bosoms.)

Also, the Beta Male tends to be considerate: he’ll open a car door for a woman, and only slam it on her coat half of the time. The beta male thanks a woman after sex, and is often quick with an apology as well. Betas tend to die quickly, from heart attacks brought on by bad eating habits, or household accidents, usually coming out on the losing end of a battle with gravity or the deadly home-repair tag-team of electricity and water. A Beta Male won’t make you sit through a long soliloquy of last words, and generally, the most you’ll hear from him at that last go-round will be either, “Whoops,” or “I shouldn’t’ have had that third chili dog, my chest – ugh.” And a Beta will not leave you with a clean-up problem, as they tend to die in the garage or the driveway, where an enterprising girl can save a lot on ambulance or hearse expense by simply dragging him to the SUV for a quick jaunt to the crematorium. (Beta’s nearly always leave instructions to be cremated, because it’s economical, allows their ashes to go somewhere they never would have gone in life, like the beach or out the door of an airplane, and because the idea of being in a wooden box full of worms gives them the willies.)

In addition to being loyal mates, the Beta males almost always make good fathers. They tend to be steady, even-tempered, and responsible, the kind of guys a girl (if she were resolved to do without the seven figure salary or the thirty-six inch vertical leap) would want as a father for her children. Of course, she’d rather not have to sleep with him for that to happen, but after you’ve been kicked to the curb by a few Alpha Males, the idea of waking up in the arms of a guy who will adore you, if for no other reason than gratitude for sex, and will always be there, even past the point where you can stand to have him around, is a comfortable compromise. Besides, if you change your mind, you can’t ask for a better cuckold than a Beta – his physiology has been tuned by evolution to respond to a fucking-over as naturally as Lance Armstrong’s does to bicycle racing, and he tends to get the support check in the mail on time for fear of being busted on a dead-beat dad charge.

If they gave a Nobel prize for being accommodating, the recipient would almost assuredly be a Beta in a rented tux.

Of course there are gay Betas: the Beta-male boyfriend is highly-prized in the gay community because you can teach him how to dress and behave, yet you can remain relatively certain that he will never develop a fashion sense or be more fabulous than you.) The Beta Male transvestite is always Ethel Merman, never Cher.

In Part Four, we learn to spot the Beta Male

Leadership and the Beta Male

Beta Males tend not to be risk-takers. They have survived the eons by valuing safety over adventure. You will not find a beta-male on the polo field, or helicopter skiing on a virgin glacier, but make no mistake, there are many a beta that will go, three, maybe even four days without flossing. (Although, admittedly, there was a point during the Paleozoic period when the beta-male gene line was nearly wiped from the face of the earth by a virulent strain of gingivitis.) And when his imagination leads to hope, the young Beta Male may even gamble. Whenever you meet a guy who says he put himself through college by shooting pool or playing cards, rest-assured that his education was actually paid for by a cadre of hopeful Betas. But more often, among Betas, safety is the rule, and with safety, comes dependability.

In the workplace, only a Beta male knows how to unjam the copier, access the network, and bypass the company internet filter to get to the porn sites. Beta Male nerds are not socially inept geniuses, they are just socially inept – instead of a burning genius he is compensated with a dull competence. That said, the Beta, for whom anxiety is the trailing-edge curse to his cutting-edge imagination, tends to deliver on time, seldom calls in sick, and returns his messages promptly, if only because he can see the dire consequences of being fired at every turn. While you’ll find Alpha males in great numbers among the ranks of entertainers, astronauts, and military commanders, The Beta male tends to excel at retail sales, accounting, and surrender. Take the steady Beta Male out of capitalism, and the system collapses on the Alpha Male ideal that the strong will always prevail over the weak to the benefit the group, when in fact, it’s the strength the group that benefits the group. (Putting, decidedly, the wisdom of survival into the realm of neither the Alpha or the Beta Male, but the female, for whom cooperation is the strong suit, and about whom we are still not going to talk, lest our thesis become as the gut-shot dog of Bush foreign policy. )

While the Beta serves as the very vertebrae of the backbone of American business, in politics, he is often the behind the most heinous fuckery and outrageous weaselosity. Carl Rove, Robert Novak, and James Trafficant are all classic Beta Males. (Yes, there are Betas in both parties. The Beta Male votes Republican because guys like Bill Clinton, or basically anyone with charisma, might take his money and his woman away. He votes Democrat because you never know when you might have to take advantage of some of those social programs.)

Beta Males do not lead countries, they run them. And those who fail to recognize the distinction tend to fail not only as Beta males, but as human beings in general. A Beta male feeling the responsibility of an Alpha Male is how you end up with a guy in a bell tower with a high powered rifle. You don’t want the Beta Male making executive decisions, ignoring his natural weaknesses and proclivity for daydreaming. Many serial killers are simply Beta Males who have channeled their leadership shortcomings into less than healthy habits. That said, you can’t beat a Beta when it comes to workplace massacres. It was a Beta male who first made the word postal a cause of death. Most healthy Betas, however, will avoid overt confrontation at almost any cost, and will choose to sulk, whine or lurk rather than attack. Scratch a stalker, and you’ll find a Beta Male with a handful of restraining orders yearning to break free. The only true Beta Male martial art is based entirely on the kindness of strangers: the fearsome kung fu of passive-aggression.

On the battlefield, you’ll find the Beta Male typing orders rather than giving them, or occasionally wiring explosives to bring down a building, burn up a village, or generally braise an entire population – master of fire, if nothing else. It was a crafty Beta Male who first discovered fire, and true, it was almost immediately taken away from him by an Alpha male (Alphas missed out on the discovery fire, but because they did not understand about grabbing the hot, orangey end of the stick, they are credited with inventing the third degree burn instead.) Still, the original spark burns bright in every Beta’s veins. When Alpha boys have long since moved on to girls and sports, Betas, in order to sublimate their frustrated sex drive, will still be pursuing pyrotechnics well into adolescence and sometimes beyond. Alpha males may lead the armies of the world, but it’s the Betas who actually get shit blowed up.

Famous Beta Male military commanders are – well, there are no famous Beta military commanders, but if there were, they would have names like Alexander the Average, , Peter the Consistent, William the Congested, or Ivan the Relatively Unpleasant. With few exceptions, Beta Males don’t become famous.

In fact, staying below the competition radar is one of the marked advantages of the Beta Male. The way that Beta males thrive is because no one believes they exist, and therefore they make great spies. Not James Bond, Aston Martin with missiles, boning the beautiful Russian rocket scientist on an ermine skin bedspread sort of spy, more the bad comb-over, deep cover bureaucrat fishing documents out of a dumpster spy. His overt non-threateningness allows him access to places and people that are closed to the alpha male, wearing his testosterone on his sleeve. A Beta Male very-well may have a throwing knife concealed in the frame of his briefcase, but it’s a good bet that he only uses it to open letters and clean his fingernails. The Beta male, can, in fact, be dangerous, not so much in the Jet-Li-entire-body-is-a-deadly-weapon way but more in the drunk-on-the-riding-mower-making-a-Luke Skywalker-assault-on-the-tool-shed sort of way.

Which is not to say that the Beta is always the one ground under the heel of the confrontation’s boot – even the most docile Beta will look upon a George Will or a Dennis Kucinich and think to himself, “Mon Dieu, I must relieve that little bitch of his lunch money, post haste.” (Betas are suckers for the Foreign phrase affectation.) Everyone is happier if he has someone to look down on, as well as someone to look up to, especially if he can resent both. This is not only the Beta Male strategy for survival, but the basis for capitalism, democracy, and most religions.

Next, in part three, we’ll examine the Beta Male as a Mate.

Over the next few blog posts I’m going to share with you guys an essay I wrote on the Beta Male. Much of the material was pulled from a Dirty Job, but it actually makes a little more sense in this context. Those of you who heard me speak on the Dirty Job tour, will recognize some of the concepts. The Beta-Male Manifesto By Christopher Moore

From the first time we see the silver-back Elmo pounding his chest on Sesame Street, to the time that some silver-haired creep swipes our green Jell-O at the geriatric center luncheon, we are confronted with the commanding creature known in nature as the Alpha Male. And while we all accept that the limelight will always fall on the politicians, professional athletes, CEOs, and other Alpha males for whom leadership seems to come as naturally as handcuffs and perp walks, it is another breed of male, a lower-key, less-dominant variety, that actually directs human existence. The world may be lead by Alpha Males, but the machinery of the world turns on the bearings of the Beta Male

The Beta Male in the Natural World

A good example of the Alpha-Beta difference in the animal kingdom occurs among elephant seals. The elephant seal, a Toyota-sized species of pinneped, is so named for the male animal’s prominent, trunk-like proboscis, which immediately brings to mind the Darwinian aphorism for male display, “The bigger the nose, the bigger the hose.” During mating season, all of the elephant seal females beach themselves, and luxuriate in the sun, looking bored and making charming belching noises meant to attract males. (A similar mode of behavior can be observed among human females on the beaches of Cancun and Ft. Lauderdale during spring break.) Males confront each other at the shoreline, and through a series of battles with other males, that are more show than actual combat, a “beach master” is chosen – usually the largest and most fit of the competitors. This Alpha male will proceed to mate with all the females of the group, while the vanquished Beta males wait at the surf line for females returning from mating (often embarrassed because they are wearing the same outfits they had on when they left the water yesterday) and will try to mate with her on the rebound, sometimes bellowing as a way of disguising himself as an alpha male. In fact, Betas are so desperate to escape their Beta Male identity, that biologists have observed them gamboling in the surf in Groucho glasses dangling Porsche keys. Thus, the Beta-male gene will survive in the elephant seal population, proving that he who gets it most, is not always as successful as he who gets it last. Human Betas, who often stay virgins until well into their twenties, could be said to be using a similar strategy, although it probably has more to do with access to alcohol and general lowering of standards among human females as they get older.

While in many mammals, it is the bigger, stronger, more flamboyant Alpha male gene that determines the direction of the species, in human beings, unique in their development of language and culture, the Beta male is the reigning the king of beasts, so to speak.

(For the purpose of the article we’ll ignore species like killer whales, elephants and lions, where the Alpha animal and leader of the group is female. The “big teeth” of the Alpha female is cooperation, which has the effect of making all male strategies seem silly. These examples just confuse the issue and cause undue uppityness among human females.)

Imagination: The Big Teeth of the Beta Male

While Alpha males are often gifted with superior physical attributes — size, strength, speed, and good looks — selected over the eons by the strongest surviving and, essentially, getting all the girls, the Beta Male gene has survived not by meeting and overcoming adversity, but by anticipating and avoiding it. That is, when the alpha males were out charging after mastodons, the beta males could imagine in advance that attacking what was essentially an angry, wooly bulldozer with a pointy stick, might be a losing proposition, so he hung back at camp to console the grieving widows whose Alpha-male mates had been stomped into mastodon moss. When alpha males set out to conquer neighboring tribes, to count coup and take heads, beta males could see in advance that in the event of a victory, the influx of female slaves was going to leave a surplus of mateless women cast out for younger trophy models, with nothing to do but salt down the heads and file the uncounted coups, and many would need find solace in the arms of any beta male smart enough to survive.

There’s a good chance that in the caveman community, that the Beta Male never got the hot, smart, Darryl Hannah cave woman, but there’s an even better chance that he got everyone else. The beta male is seldom the strongest or the fastest, but because he can anticipate danger, he far outnumbers his alpha male competitors. Rather than strength, size, or charisma, the Beta Male adapted to adversity by developing a massive imagination.

The problem for the Beta in modern society, is that his imagination has become superfluous – a vestigial encumbrance. Like the saber-toothed tiger’s fangs, or the Alpha male’s testosterone, there’s just more beta male imagination than can be put to good use. Consequently, in the modern world, many beta males become hypochondriacs, neurotics, paranoids, or develop an addiction to, comic books, video games, or porn. For while the beta male imagination evolved to help him avoid danger, as a side effect it also allows him fantasy-only access to power, money, and leggy, model-type females who, in reality, wouldn’t kick him in the kidneys to get a bug off their shoe. The rich fantasy life of the Beta male may often spill over into reality, manifesting in a near-genius levels of self-delusion. In fact, many Beta Males, contrary to any empirical evidence, actually believe that they are Alpha Males, and have been endowed by their creator with advanced stealth charisma, which, although awesome in concept, is totally undetectable by women who are not constructed from carbon fiber. Every time a super model divorces her rock star husband, the Beta Male secretly rejoices (or more accurately, feels great waves of unjustified hope,) and every time a beautiful movie star marries, the Beta Male experiences a sense of lost opportunity. The entire city of Las Vegas – plastic opulence, treasure for the taking, vulgar towers, and cocktail waitresses with improbable breasts—is built on the self-delusion of the Beta Male.

Continued in Part 2

You guys know I don’t read at my readings, yet I had to read the other night in Harrison, NY. So, by request, Here’s the Essay that I wrote, and read, for that event.

I DON’T READ, By Christopher Moore

I’d like to start this reading, by saying that I do not read.

When I say I do not read, I mean that I don’t do public readings – in other words, I don’t read in public, but because I tell lies for a living, no one believes me. So here I am, at another public reading, even though, I do not read.

I do not – not read, because, like some finicky toddler eyeing a food item he’s never tried, a turnip, say, I fear the unknown and untried. (Even though history has proven that turnips cannot be trusted.) No, I have tried reading. I do not, not read because I haven’t been there, done that. No. It is because I have tried reading and failed miserably that I don’t read.

I mean, I read. In private. When no one is watching. You probably do as well. I think we can all, as adults, admit here, that we have, at one time or another read. But not in public! With a sound system and people recording it. What is public is public and what is private is private and if that wasn’t the case then we might as well all just do porn, our naughty bits in a whirl, our hormones flying to and fro, hither and yon,

and no one wants to see that.

That’s all I’m saying.

Yet, despite my right to privacy, Which is kinda-sorta defined in the Constitution And for which courageous men have given their lives And many public servants have sworn to uphold Several of whom have actually meant it, I stand before you here, tonight, telling you that I do not read.

Reading.

Last Saturday I was walking by the Liberty Bell. Really. In Philadelphia. Where they keep it. And I saw three cops checking the ID of an East-Indian Man And his two young sons. They didn’t check my ID. When clearly I could be up to something. And they didn’t check anyone else’s ID. (I watched for a while.) Just the brown, vaguely foreign-looking guy. I don’t have a point. I was just reading about rights and freedom and stuff. And I thought it was kind of ironic.

I wish I had been carded in front of the Liberty Bell. Because then I’d be ranting at you, instead of reading,

Which I don’t do.

I might have read,

gleefully read,

If I had not been traumatized at an early age When my Mother’s sister Shirley, who lived with us Was reading aloud to the family one night And during a particularly spirited passage of Poe, (From the poem, Annabell Lee, I believe) Skidded off the end of the line And was crippled in a nine adjective pile up. Thus rendering her illiterate for the rest of her life. How sad it was, to see sweet Aunt Shirley, wandering around the house, Asking, “Can I use the blow dryer in the tub?” or “Is this dry-cleaning bag a toy?” or “What’s in the yellow box.”

“Cheerios,” Shirley, “For the love of God, there’s Cheerios in the box! Look at the picture, for fucks sake!”

And then we’d feel bad, when she would follow with, “Then who’s that kid on the milk carton?”

Well, that alone, is reason enough for me not to read, I think. But no, because I developed early, reaching the reading level of blue jets long before the other kids, I was teased, and made to feel a freak. And they made me read. “But I don’t read!” said the sad, but immensely talented little boy. “Read it,” Sister Mary Nicotine, would croak, when it was just the two of us in the cloak room. ”Read it, slow, like you mean it, and don’t skip a word.” Then she would close her eyes and lean back on the cloaks, (which were kept in the cloak room,) and she would make me read it, again and again…”

It’s okay. I’m alright now. That was a long time ago, and although if I see a nun or a cloak now I spontaneously urinate, I’m okay. I don’t read, but I’m okay.

Later, in my twenties, when I was living with a woman who had two young sons, I was asked, once again, to read aloud. And I did. Not because it was easy, but, for the children.

Over and over,

I read, against my own better judgment, the same story, about the Eggs Chartruse and Smoked Pork…

I do not read, in a box, I do not read, with a fox, I do not read in a house, I do not read, with a mouse. I will not read, to a crowd I will not read in public, aloud.

I read it, every night, because the children asked for it, and all would seem to have been harmless, except later, both boys went on to be have sex change operations, one became a crack whore and the other heads the department of heinous weaselosity at the Whitehouse.

I might as well have just kicked the human spirit in the nads.

I might have just tossed a dead rat into the blender with the milk of human kindness and called it a day, but no, here I stand.

Reading.

I’ve been out on book tour for the last three weeks, going from town to town, plane to plane, not reading. When I show up for a signing the people at the book store ask, “Do you want to read?” Despite the fact that my advance people have been there for days, getting the blue M&Ms and the Bulgarian Spring water in place for my appearance, making sure that sheets with less than a 400 thread count do not abrade my delicate flesh, yet there they stand, asking, forcing me to point to section six, paragraph 5, of the agreement, which clearly states, that as a party to this agreement, they understand, that I do not fucking read.

Now, if I were on book tour, and I said, for instance, that “I didn’t fly,” it’s highly unlikely that my editor would invite me up to the observation deck of the Chrysler building and toss me off because she did not believe me. Otherwise there would have been a Ray Bradbury shaped dent in Lexingotn Avenue a long time ago. No, I think that I can say, with some conviction, that my editor has never tossed Ray Bradbury off.

Probably.

Yet I have often said, “I do not read,” and here I am, being tossed off, figuratively, in front of each and every one of you.

If I had said, as my tour was being planned, “I do not drive.” Someone would be provided to drive me or I’d be reimbursed for cab fare. Yet I told them I do not read, and here I am.

Reading.

And not at an amateur level – I am reading at a professional level, with professionals.. You might as well prop your non-driving, cataract befogged grandmother behind the wheel at the Indianapolis 500 and tell her to step on it, and don’t spare the horsepower –, get out of the way, Bobby Rayhall, the pace is now being set by a driver with the reflexes of a house plant. I tried to tell you. At any speed, I am unsafe to read.

I thought when I wrote the book, that it was understood, at least tacitly, that a reader would be provided,

perhaps even several.

Frankly, I think it’s an insult to all of you. You know you could do a better job, I know you would do a better job, yet here I am, doing it for you.

Three weeks ago, in Santa Cruz, California, I was doing a taped interview at the local NPR station, when the interviewer pointed out a paragraph in my new book and asked me to read it for the tape.

I don’t read, I said. I know, he said. But if you could just read this. I know, but I don’t read because I suck at it. I know, he said, but I can edit out any mistakes. So I read. And twenty false starts later Each which I punctuated with, “Fuck!” Twenty takes later,

He said, Wow, you really don’t read. That’s all I’m saying, “I said.

Later he emailed me that he had left in many of the reading mistakes in the show, Sort of like a blooper reel. Some bonus content for the NPR audience during pledge week.

After the show ran, hundreds of listeners sent back their tote bags, their coffee mugs, and their DVD sets of The Complete History of Blurry Old Photos by Ken Burns , asking for their money back.

I told them. But they didn’t believe me.

When I was in Pennsylvania last week, a bear ate a kid. It was sad. But kind of funny. Not that the bear ate the kid. You may have misinterpreted my reading. Although that may be, well — you know why But it was funny because they were going to trap the bear In a live trap Baited with donuts. Which I thought was strange. Because clearly, the bear had already shown his dietary preference.

He had not come out of the woods To eat a donut.

They’re probably going to catch the wrong bear.

They clearly should have baited the trap With a kid. Perhaps holding a donut, for safe measure.

Or perhaps they should have asked the bear to read. Ha! you say. “Bears don’t read.”

Neither do I, yet here I am.

(But for future reference, If you choose to live trap me. A donut will be perfect bait.) You can shoot me with one of those tranq guns. And when I wake up. I’ll be chained to a podium. And you can poke me with sticks. Until I read.

When they asked the gypsies to read, I read nothing, because I was not a gypsy. And when they asked the Jews to read, I read nothing, because I was not a Jew. Then they asked the Catholics to read, and I read nothing, because I was not a Catholic. And when they asked the cats to read, I read nothing, because I was I not a cat, But I listened carefully, Because it would have been cool, you know, if it turned out that cats could read. Because you could leave post-its on the couch. That said, “Hey, don’t scratch this, you furry little mook!” I could leave a note in the cat box, “Hey, don’t kick all the litter out on the floor. And then, the cats would leave me a message back. But, sadly, cats don’t read. And neither do I.

I have a Dream! That someday, A man will be judged by the content of his composition, Not the quality of his elocution.

Imagine if I were talking to you. Instead of reading to you I’d be looking you in the eye Instead of you staring at my bald spot.

Stop it.

And when I looked at you, You’d see the sincerity in my eyes. Because I wouldn’t be wearing these glasses Which I need for reading.

I know what you’re thinking. If not for the hair loss and the glasses And the despair He’d be a fine piece of man meat If it wasn’t for his reading.

I’d do him, you’re thinking. If his reading wasn’t so – weak.

You’re thinking:

Boy, that Garrison Keillor can sure read. That dulcet baritone rolling sultry out of a Norwegian With the shoulders of a freight train And the face of a Shinto Demon. I’d do Garrison Keillor, if he were up there now. Instead of this fucktard.

I’d be Garrison Keillor’s Prarie Home Companion Good Long Time. You’re thinking. You tramps.

When I get home from this book tour, I’m going to teach my cats to read. I know, they’ll keep insisting that they don’t read. But you know how cats lie.

I know they can type. I’ve often left my office, only to return to find a cryptic message on the screen Where before there had only been the draft of my new book I just don’t know what language they’re typing. But from their behavior, It appears that they are trying to say In cat type. “I’m going to go fuck up the couch And take a nap.”

Now you’re probably saying,

He’s not even reading.

He’s just,

(Turn page)

Making stuff up, now.

He could just be looking at the page

He probably doesn’t even read in public.

And it’s that sharp perception, That analytical excellence. That keen intellect That makes me like you.

I’ve always liked you. As an audience, I mean. Not in some sleazy way. You’re the best.

I only wish that I read. So I didn’t have to leave you unsatisfied. Watching me gather my things. And sneak out the door. My shoes in my hand. My underwear in my jacket pocket.

I’ll call you. I say. “Okay,” you say. But you just want me to go. So you can get some sleep. Before work.

Thanks.

COMMETS http://bbs.chrismoore.com/viewtopic.php?t=6922

You guys.

I know there is an event listed on the blog in Harrison, New York on Tuesday, April 18th. If you’re planning to attend, I’ll be happy to meet you and sign your books and all that, but you should know this:

THIS IS NOT THE CHRIS SHOW

I know that in the past they’ve listed my events as readings and I don’t read, I talk to you guys, but despite the fact that I have insisted for over 12 years that I don’t read, they have set me up in a reading. And because there are other authors there, it would be disrespectful to turn it into the Chris show.

THIS IS A READING

I know what you’re saying. "But Chris, you don’t read. We all know that." And you are correct. I can’t explain why I have to do this reading because my head would explode, and nobody wants that, but I don’t want you guys to travel really far as some of you have for the other events (thanks, by the way) expecting for me to do what I do, because I’ll be doing what I don’t do.

This only applies to this one event. Before and after, it will be bidness as usual, with an Ambien-adled Author Guy asking people what the hell he was talking about for 45 minutes to an hour.

Still touring, kids. Here’s a very nice article from the SF Chronicle by Marta Acosta. Click the pics of Monique’s creatures — the Squirrel People– ooooooo.

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2006/04/10/DDGEPI5SCK1.DTL&type=books

Hey kids. I know I’m way overdue for a report from the road, and it is coming as soon as I get a chance to write it, but here’s a big thanks to you guys.

Thanks for buying my books. Thanks for coming to my events. Thanks for the great support. And thanks for putting A Dirty Job on the New York Times bestseller list — debuted at #9 this week.

For this week, you will please refer to me as "his Nineness".

But really, it’s all you, isn’t it?

I’m verklempt. Talk amongst yourselves. I’ll be in touch soon.

Comments http://bbs.chrismoore.com/viewtopic.php?p=75409#75409

Tour starts today, kids.

I’m doing Talk of the Nation Today on NPR. Check your local listings. It’s 12:40p here on the West Coast.

Thanks for all your terrific reviews on Amazon and B&N.com. Keep ’em coming.

Hope you enjoy the book. See you. I’ll report in as I get a chance.

Shoes on, Shoes off.

Pursue the eightfold path, But please step over here first.

What is the sound of one-hand pat down?

Does a nail clipper have a terrorist nature? Boo!

If you see the Buddha on the road, report him.

The bowl is empty. Keys! The bowl is empty.

Look deep into your luggage. No fair using the Xray.

Chakras on the tray. Quickly, back in their place!

Comments: http://bbs.chrismoore.com/viewtopic.php?p=70484#70484