Christopher Moore's Blog

You guys know I love the new words the kids are using today. (Officially, that’s the most lame-assed middle-aged thing I have ever composed,besides “I don’t think so honey, if I take another viagra the ceiling fan is going to re-circumcise me. Sorry.) Anyway, words…

From time to time, I run across a few I’d like to work into my vocabulary, usually more for the sound than the meaning.Some of the loyal boardies have gotten me using the Tard variations(Fucktard, Botard, uptarded, and my own personal gaming alias Ubertard) to a point of nearly intolerable political incorrectness, but here’s a few I found on my one my favorite web sites, Urbandictionary.com, and below that, a list of political words that appeared in the NY Times a couple of days ago. All toward helping us achieve more colorful speech and writing.

Your homework, list your fave obscure, new, or made-up word, and really good or funny acronyms are welcome.

kthxbi shortening of “k thx bye”. The K is short for OK, which is short for oll korrect, which is a facetious alteration of All Correct. thx is short for thanx which is a facetious alteration of thanks which is short for thank you. Bye is short for goodbye, which is an alteration of alteration of God be with you. “kthxbye” is the pinnacle of English’s advancement, shortening “All correct, Thank you, God be with you.” into seven lowercase letters. Humanity is doomed. Obviously, it is used to end a conversation *fast* that you don’t want to be in anymore.

Whiny bitch: Here’s your hamburger. Anyway, as I was saying about how bad my life is…

Whiny bitch: I have no friends. Wan wan wan.

douchewaffle An offshoot of the highly popular douchebag. Use in a derogatory sense.

Literal definition: a waffle made using the contents of a douchebag.

Abstract definition: a person who has surpassed the usual level of a ‘douchebag’ and is now at a whole new level of doucheness.

After his accident, Bob Novak is officially a Douchwaffle.

Booty Chirp (noun) a chirp aimed at getting into your pants. (alt) Use of a Boost Mobile phone to call for sex.

I was madd horny so I booty chirped Jamie and told her to get her ass over heah.

fo’ shizzle my batmitzvah

what ghetto jewish kids say

jewish kid 1: what up jewish kid 2: fo’ shizzle my batmitzvah jewish kid 1: wurd dawgie

diet whoopass

A can of Whoopass with only 1 calorie per serving.

I will open a can of diet whoopass on these townies because I am watching my weight.

badonkadonk An ‘ebonic’ expression for an extremely curvaceous female behind. Women who possess this feature usually have a small waist that violently explodes into a round and juicy posterior (e.g., 34c, 24, 38). Other characteristics would be moderately wide hips and a large amount of booty cleavage (i.e, depth of butt-crack).

Her badonkadonk made a brotha pop mad wheelies

Slang Only a Velcroid Would Love By TOM KUNTZ

Actorvist A politically involved actor. (Also, raptivist, the hip-hop version.)

Bafflegab Confusing or unintelligible speech, doublespeak.

“As the parade to the rostrum continued, the bafflegab glossary expanded: Narrowing Parameters, functions of situational variables, diagnostic-planning activity, …”

The Wall Street Journal, March 14, 1967

Barking Head An aggressive or loud broadcast commentator.

Belligerati Any belligerent person or group; as a group, pro-war commentators.

Bogsat [Bunch of Guys Sitting Around a Table’ target=’_blank’> Policy or decision making by a small group of associates.

Bomfog Platitudinous political rhetoric or obfuscation. (From “brotherhood of man under the fatherhood of God,” closing line of a radio speech by John D. Rockefeller Jr., on July 8, 1941; later used as a slogan by Nelson Rockefeller.)

Cave [Citizens Against Virtually Everything.’ target=’_blank’> Persons who seem opposed to all real estate or commercial development or change. Hence Cave people, Cave dweller, Cavie.

Conchie A conscientious objector to military service. Also conshi, conshy.

“We’re ‘conshys’ too – but we don’t work at it.”

Stars & Stripes, Aug. 30, 1918

Doubledome A scholar or intellectual, esp. a highly educated person who holds impractical or unrealistic views.

“Then the doubledomes in Washington set a deadline.”

“Sayonara,” James A. Michener

Drag Influence.

“What’s your angle, Flynn? Where do you get your drag?”

“The Mob,” 1951 film

Flush-Bottom A wealthy contributor.

Globaloney An unrealistic foreign policy or global outlook.

Granfalloon Any large, amorphous organization without real identity. Coined by Kurt Vonnegut.

“Other examples of granfalloons are the Communist Party, the Daughters of the American Revolution, the General Electric Company, the International Order of Odd Fellows – and any nation, anytime, anywhere.

“Cat’s Cradle,” Kurt Vonnegut

Johnny Congress The United States Congress.

“Johnny Congress has been busily engaged for some time past in raising the pay of Naval officers.”

Gettysburg Republican Compiler, Jan. 6, 1835

Minarchist An anarchist in favor of minimal government sufficient only to protect citizen rights and provide civil defense.

“The two main divisions within the modern libertarian movement are the anarchist libertarians, who believe in no government, and the ‘monarchist’ libertarians, who believe that a shred of government is tolerable.”

The Los Angeles Times, Nov. 1, 1985

Mister Whiskers The United States government or one of its law-enforcement agencies.

Neverendum A series of referendums initiated until the desired outcome is achieved, (specif.) referendums on the status of Quebec.

Panda-hugger A specialist in American-Chinese relations said to be too accommodating to Chinese perspectives.

Politainer A politician who is an entertainer.

“Jesse Ventura and the Brave New World of Politainer Politics”

The Star Tribune, Minneapolis, May 4, 2000

Red-Headed Eskimo A precisely targeted bill, law or piece of legislation.

Sheeple Submissive citizens.

“Mrs. Anderson begins every book sale with a lecture, and in this instance she derides taxpayers in general as submissive ‘sheep people’ – or ‘sheeple’ for short.”

The Wall Street Journal, Feb. 27, 1984

Slacktivism Activism which requires little effort.

Snollygoster A shrewd, unprincipled person, esp. a politician.

“A Georgia editor kindly explains that ‘a snollygoster is a fellow who wants office, regardless of party, platform or principles, and who, whenever he wins, gets there by the sheer force of monumental talknophical assumnacy.’ ”

The Columbus Dispatch, Oct. 28, 1895

Turkey Farm A department or agency staffed with political and patronage hirees; (broadly) an underperforming office.

Twinkie Appealing but lacking substance.

“Democratic presidential hopeful Paul Tsongas told the nation’s mayors on Monday that leaders of his own party are advocating ‘Twinkie economics’ by appealing to popular tastes without offering substance.”

Associated Press, June 17, 1991

Vampire State A nation or state seen as consuming excessive resources or taxes, esp. if it delivers services poorly or suffers from chronically weak economic conditions. [Often a play on “Empire State,” a nickname for New York state.’ target=’_blank’>

Velcroid A person who seeks the company of the powerful or famous in an attempt to borrow glory by proximity. Hence velcrosis.

Zoo Plane An airplane carrying journalists accompanying a traveling politician.

Charlee and I went to a first birthday party tonight for a little girl named Lilly. Now here in Hawaii, first birthdays are a big deal, a huge deal. The grandparents spring for a huge party, tons of people come, friends, family, extended family, a big deal. But the coolest part of this party was that Lilly was not the biological granddaughter. Lilly had been adopted from China.

See our friends Lori and Stuart went to China a month or so ago to pick Lilly up. You may remember Stuart from an earlier story. He is a carpenter and was supposed to help me install the new floors in our house, but had to cancel because he had to go get a Chinese baby. At the time, I was against it, and insisted that if they got one Chinese baby they’d just want another one a half hour later, but Stuart and Laurie were resolute and went and got their damn baby anyway…

And it was just swell. I mean just, SWELL. This little kid was so happy, and they were so happy and all the people in this big restaurant that the grandparents had rented for them were so happy for them. The kid clapped and smiled and screamed out stuff like little kids will, you know, little verbal barks, (most of the time it’s the word “no”) only it was in Chinese, so it sounded like there was kung-fu going on in there, but obvious the kid was happy. And Laurie was wearing a red and black silk dress that matched Lilly’s red and black silk dress and Stuart had on one of those ornate Chinese silk jackets and pants, also red and black. They were happy and color coordinated.

So the guy sitting next to me leans over and goes, “Laurie had those made for them in China. Cheap. Child labor you know?” And I go, “Yeah, I know, how long before we can get Lilly to make us some Nikes.” And he goes, “Dude, she’s an American now, you can’t afford her Nikes.” And I go, “Oh yeah. “

So there were slide shows, with Stuart and Laurie posing on the Great Wall of China. (Which, you know what? really? Not that great.) And posing with other adoptive parents, and with a whole line-up of Chinese babies who looked really, really unhappy, mainly, I’m guessing, because China sucks. Anyway, then there was a prayer, and a guy played happy birthday, singing the lyrics in English, Hawaiian, and then Chinese, and one of Stuart’s sisters got up and danced a hula, which was excellent, and I’d never seen a hula performed in jeans, but it didn’t detract. The sister didn’t look anything like Stuart, which is because Stuart is adopted. And so is his brother. And did I mention that most of the people in the room were Japanese, except for the Portuguese, and a few Hawaiians, oh yeah, and a couple of Filipinos, and there was a smattering of Haoles, (the white folks) and a lot of what we on the islands call Hapas, which means mixed race, and Lori and her family are from West Virginia, which I believe makes them Crackers.

And with all that, the M.C. stood and welcomed Lilly into her new family. And he said that because we all live on this small island, we all will have a part in raising this child, so it’s only right that we all take part in this ceremony. (Everyone a generation above you is Auntie or Uncle, even if you can’t trace blood.) And it was sweet and good and I was very happy for this new family, and Charlee and I were honored to have been included in this Ohana, this family.

And it made me think.. If my whole extended family was on an island with me, and supplies ran short, who would we eat first?

Now, this is a hypothetical, because much of my family is dead or afraid of flying, so getting to an island would be really expensive, but, you know, say the family reunion was held on a deserted island. Who would go on the spit first? Grandma is the obvious choice because of her age, if you use that criteria, right? But grandma is not a large woman. I’d say on her best day she’s doesn’t go a buck ten even with the walker and those creepy shoes with the big thick heels. And she can live for three days on one of those jelly things that she steals from Denny’s, so as far as caloric efficiency, she’s not really a logical choice.

So going on those grounds, you have to go for Aunt Vron. (Yes, her name really is Vron, and that is not her Romulan name left over from a Star Trek convention. ) One of Aunt Vron’s breasts is as big as Thanksgiving turkey. Imagine that: two sixteen pound gobblers slung in a Playtex cross your heart, coming across the room at you like guided meat missiles, determined to hug you until you turn blue. (It’s a wonder really, that any of us kids survived the family reunion.) When Aunt Vron decides to move, she has to notify the outer reaches of her hips to begin the trip, and send a telegram that she is moving out to the equator of her ass before everything can be mobilized. A large woman, is what I’m saying. What I’m saying, is that when Aunt Vron sits around the house – well — you know. That lovely, affectionate, gargantuan hunk of avuncular womanhood is calorie-rich, is what I’m saying. Your honor, on a caloric basis, you must fry the bitch up.

But despite her size, Aunt Vron is vital. Vital I tell you! Sure, she might get winded shuffling the cards before she kicks your ass at gin rummy, but if you ever get between Vron and her gallon of potato salad, you will have wished you had smeared yourself with marmalade and tried to blow a Kodiak bear during his nap instead. People have seen her do a ballpark job of parallel parking her ’67 Lincoln Continental with the suicide doors, leaving that jet mama-jama a good three feet from the curb, only to get out, grab her pocketbook, and nudge it up to a tire-width away with the bump of a hip. Her pocketbook alone has herniated a half-dozen gallant gents who held it safe while she rolled into the fitting room, if only for a wisp of a chance at scaling the vertiginous flesh mountain that was Vron (for she was always a widow, even as a child). No, Vron has too much life, you can’t just eat a woman like that.

And so, methinks, it’s time to start basting Uncle B. No one knows what the B stands for. His brothers and sister simply call him B. But what we know about B, what we have always known about B, was that be could never be far from death’s door. At any given hour of the day, Uncle B is smoking and drinking. His right hand is a constant “C” fitted perfectly to the roundness of an Old Fashioned glass. His left hand is a mass of scar tissue from the cigarettes that have burned out in them after he has passed out. Except for the reunion, he lives in a Lazy Boy, which sits next to an ashtray that looks very much like the Olympic torch from the 1968 Mexico City Summer Olympics. It has never been emptied. It is the Gettysburg of ashtrays. Hundreds of thousands of dead, burnt bodies lay in it’s wide field. At some point in the morning, Aunt Alma removes the tumbler from Uncle B’s “C”, and replaces it with a coffee cup, the coffee black and Folgers and laced with brandy. After his breakfast, Uncle B. goes to the bathroom and coughs for an hour and fifteen minutes. Neighborhood dogs howl, children cry, and smokers as far as a half-mile away will crumple their packs and swear “never again” during one of Uncle B’s coughing fits. Then after a six pack to rehydrate, Uncle B is ready to start his day. He’s a uniform olive green color, darkening to a dark gray under his eyes, and although his hair is always combed, severely to the side, like an SS officer’s, and dressed with Brillcream (who knows where he still finds it) he has dandruff flakes the size of Post-its. That, along with the silver trail of ashes that cascade down the front of his shirt through the day, make it appear that gnomes have been helicopter skiing on him. Every time you talk to Uncle B, you say good-bye like it is the last time you are going to see him, even if you are just going to take a leak. Now that’s the kind of guilt-free calories an extended family can live on, right? And! And, it has the exotic thrill of eating fugu, that deadly blowfish, from which one bite of its liver will kill you within minutes – Uncle B’s liver has to be at least that toxic! And all of those empty carbs from alcohol have not gone to waste – Uncle B is calorie rich, and pre-marinated.

You simply have to eat Uncle B.

I can just hear my cousin Sherry, “Wow, it sort of bites the tongue a little, like it has pepper in it.” “That’s the carcinogens,” Grandma will say (Grandma always cooks, and you know she won’t let anyone else prepare her little brother B. My guess is she’ll roll him in corn-meal and flour and fry him in bacon fat, which is her preferred method of cooking everything. We are a happy family, proud of our LDL levels well into the 400s.)

Yes, our extended family will feast long and say great things about Uncle B. On this small island, everyone will take part, everyone will have a piece of B. It will be sweet, and good, and we will be honored to be a part of him.

So that’s your homework. On your family island … Who first?

Aloha.

Just wanted to thank you guys for all the great birthday wishes. I’m touched (and not in a bad way).

I spent my birthday writing on the new book, and I realized how lucky I am to have done that, and to be able to do this for a living, because it’s exactly what I wanted to be doing on my birthday. You guys have all made that possible, so again, I thank you.

Now that I’ve reached my very, very late twenties, an age, quite honestly, when most of the males in my family take the big dirt nap, I started looking, as one tends to do on birthdays and New Years, at my life in a sense of where I’ve been and where I’m going, and a very strong voice in my head said this:

I am not tired, I am not bored, I am not burnt out, I am not cynical, and I am definitely, not done.

Onward!

I’m not really sure that a Blog was a great idea. You see, I don’t always have something to say. I suppose I could post a political rant of the day, but first, I’m not that well informed, and second, I don’ t think that’s why you guys come to these pages. So I checked out some other writer’s blogs, and what I found out was that these guys were basically taking their e-mails and turning them into a combination FAQ/BLOG. This is completely understandable, because the events of a writer’s life can be pretty mundane. (Got up. Drank coffee. Sat in chair for twelve hours making clicky noises on keyboard. Etc.) So today, I’ll try the “What I got in my e-mails” format and see how it goes.

GREAT DEALS FOR YOU AT HOTELS.COM would like to know if I’d like to book a weekend in Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, or Vegas.

No, thank you. I have a book to write and I caught a cold on the plane coming back from Portland last week so I feel like pounded poop.

CHRISTIAN LENDERS ARE COMPETING TO GIVE YOU MONEY would like to know if I am interested in being contacted by the hundreds of Christian Lenders who are interested in giving me money.

I’m okay, thanks. But if they could send me some cookies and strudel, that would be good. It’s a known fact that the best cookies and strudel come from church bake sales because they are rife with competition.

FROTHINGFANGIRL would like to know if I know that I am totally “the shit”.

Yes. I applied to be “the shit” several years ago and received my certificate in 2002. Previously I had maintained the rank of “all that” for two years, before which I was “so money” for a period of 18 months.

YOU CAN INCREASE YOUR SIZE BY 2 INCHES would like to know if I would like to increase my size by two inches and be able to satisfy a woman all night long.

I don’t really see the use of either of these things.

NEEDYOURHELPNOW would like to know if I could help her get the fortune of her late husband, the former president of the country, out of the Philippines.

Dude, I don’t even know where my phone book is. If you’re turning to me for help you are fucked beyond saving.

There, I think that worked fine, and it gives you all an insight into my interesting life.

Hey kids, I realize that I won’t be getting to everyone’s city on tour for this book, and yet it is the perfect gift book for those who like a twisted little Christmas, so Harper Collins has made up these custom self-adhesive bookplates that I’ve signed.

If you want some to stick in your gift copies of Stupidest Angel, just send a self-addressed, stamped envelop to me at: P.O. Box 111, Kilauea, HI 96754. Limit ten per person. Bookstores can e-mail me (BSFiends@aol.com) if you’d like to have more.

A normal, legal-sized envelop folded in thirds is fine, but even the smaller, bill-paying envelops will work as well. The bookplates are about the size of a magazine mailing label. Don’t wait too long. Mail can take up to two weeks from Hawaii, and that’s not including my flaking on you. Please enclose a very, very brief note telling me how many you’d like. I’m not going to be able to reply personally to each note, but you’ll get your labels.

Hey kids, here’s the tentative tour dates.

Do not, do not, do not, complain that I am not coming to your area. You wouldn’t believe the machinations that went on behind the scenes to get this tour at all. I’ll be making signed bookplates available to everyone who wants to give Stupidest Angel for the Holidays, but we just couldn’t do more dates and areas. Sorry.

December 1: University Bookstore, Seattle December 2: Third Place Books, Seattle December 3: Borders 1000 Oaks, LA December 4: Brentano’s Century City, LA (full-tilt event) December 5: Poisoned Pen, Phoenix December 6: Tattered Cover, Denver December 7: Powell’s, Portland December 8: Book Passage, Corte Madera/SF December 9: Books Inc., Mountain View/SF December 10: Mysterious Galaxy, San Diego Borders, Lihue, HI to be announced.

No funny comments. I just thought this was a very cool and very usable word. (It sounds French. You gotta love that. Like melange, or decollatage — love that soft g sound.)

bricolage bree-koh-LAHZH; brih-, noun: Construction or something constructed by using whatever materials happen to be available.

The Internet is a global bricolage, lashing together unthinkable complexities of miscellaneous computers with temporary lengths of phone line and fiber optic, bits of Ethernet cable and strings of code. –Bernard Sharratt, “Only Connected,” [1′ target=’_blank’>New York Times, December 17, 1995

Cooking with leftovers was bricolage–a dialogue between the cook and the available materials. –Susan Strasser, [2′ target=’_blank’>Waste and Want: A Social History of Trash

I point out to my students that no one ever really reads Hamlet for the first time now; we’ve heard it all before in bits and pieces, cultural bricolage. –Marjorie Garber, “Back to Whose Basics?” [3′ target=’_blank’>New York Times, October 29, 1995 _________________________________________________________

Bricolage comes from the French, from bricole, “trifle; small job.”

So, I watched Arnold’s speech at the Republican Convention. According to him, I am a Republican. Evidently, the test for being a Republican is the same one they give for “Are You A Carbon Based Life Form”, which I read in Cosmo some years ago. (Actually the test was, Is Your Man a Carbon-Based Life Form and If He Is, What Can you Do to Trick Him.) I knew they had quit checking SAT scores for the Republican party, that was sort of evident when, well, you know.

So, we Republicans are pitching a really, really big tent. A great big circus of a tent. And now that I am a Republican, I’m not really sure that I want to be in the same tent with all of you freaks. I mean, you can buy my books, and vote for my candidates and stuff, but, you know, don’t expect any rights, or policies that benifit you. You’re welcome in, just, you know, stay away from me. And this isn’t like the Nigerian money, either. This is real. I heard it from a guy who is famous for pretending to be a robot.

Rob Phillips sent these covers he did yesterday. Thought you guys would enjoy a different interpretation. I like them all, but the Fluke one is especially nice. (The Lamb one actually kind of creeps me out — it’s sort of hyper-real.)

Rob did these all on his own, and with no compensation, so be nice in your comments, k?

This one will appear in Ingram’s online magazine. Again, since this is a fairly obscure publication, I thought I’d share with you guys here.

Q&A with Christopher Moore, author of The Stupidest Angel

How’s life in Hawaii?

I’m still getting used to it. Being in and around the water is great, but writing is harder here because there are great distractions just out the door. On the other hand, it’s bloody hot when the trade winds stop blowing, so sitting in an air conditioned room making clicky noises on the keyboard isn’t a bad way to spend those days.

This year you’ve jumped on the Christmas novel sleigh along with other bestselling authors—what motivated you to pen a holiday tale?

I’ve wanted to do a Christmas story for years, but I always think about it at Christmastime, which is way too late or early for a short story. Actually taking the step to write a Christmas book is just as crass as you might guess. It started as a suggestion by one of the national sales reps from Harper Collins, who thought my goofy sense of humor would work in a Christmas story. I thought it would be a great way to reach a wider audience than my other books, to expose people to my sense of humor and see if it clicks

Though I’m sure your fans realize it, we must state that your tale isn’t the perfect, sickeningly sweet gift for grandma (unless she has a really good sense of humor, of course). Can you give us your own brief description of this “heartwarming tale of Christmas terror”?

It’s a few days before Christmas and the Archangel Raziel has been sent to Earth to grant a Christmas wish for one child. Little Josh Barker has just seen Santa murdered with a shovel, and it’s his greatest Christmas wish that Santa be brought back to life. Well, Raziel isn’t exactly the brightest halo in the heavenly host, so in granting Joshua’s wish, he unleashes an undead invasion on the little village of Pine Cove, right as the residents are gathered for the annual Christmas Party for the Lonesome. Much hilarity and carnage ensues. The book is peopled with my usual cast of misfits: the hippy constable, Theo, who is battling his pot habit, his wife Molly Michon, who is a retired B movie queen for whom the line between reality and her character, Kendra, Warrior Babe of the Outland, sometimes blurs, Gabe Fenton, field biologist and heartbroken uber-nerd, Tucker Case, former pilot for Mary Jean cosmetics and now helicopter pilot for the DEA, and his pet fruitbat Roberto. (For what is a Christmas Story without a fruitbat who may or may not talk? I’m not saying.)

The Stupidest Angel brings readers back to Pine Cove for a third time. Plus, you’ve brought in characters from some of your other books—including Tucker Case and Roberto the talking fruit bat from Island of the Sequined Love Nun and Raziel, the stupidest angel, from Lamb. So, is this a Christmas present for your devoted following or a clever marketing ploy to hook new readers?

Yes.

Seven-year-old Joshua Barker gets a real surprise when he witnesses what appears to be the murder of Santa. Seven seems a bit old to still believe—do you remember how old you were when you discovered Santa wasn’t real?

I was a hold out., probably until I was seven, although I was a bit of a denial prodigy, so even in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, I believed in Santa. And even now, well into my really late twenties, I can’t wait for Christmas Eve when the weather radar picks up Santa’s sleigh coming down from the North Pole on the eleven o’clock news. I gotta tell you, the whole Santa, Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny, Evil Postman of Cold Germs mythology that was propagated by my parents, then later retracted, well, it completely compromised the whole Jesus is watching you and if you don’t do your homework it will go on your permanent record arguments that came later. It just taught me that you really can’t trust grown-ups because they are feckless liars at heart. I’m yet to find any evidence to the contrary.

You’ve stated that you’re a Buddhist with Christian tendencies, so I was wondering if you celebrate Christmas? If so, what’s your favorite holiday tradition? Have you made your Christmas list?

I used to loathe Christmas – too many years working in the tourist industry, where you work really, really hard during Christmas for money you’ve already spent. Now I very much enjoy the season – seeing friends, gaining weight, showing up at strangers’ homes and staying until they feed me. It gives everyone an excuse to be overtly kind to one-another, which is nice, even if they are completely insincere. I also enjoy the crass commercialism of Christmas. I don’t really see it as a religious holiday, I see it more as big red and white commerce festival. Plus, for my money you can’t have enough colored lights in your house. If it was up to me, they’d stay up all year long, and every year I try to pull that off, but around March the mysterious woman with whom I live starts doing the “they come down before Easter, one way or another” threats, and I take them down so I don’t have to buy all new ones next year.

And my Christmas list is done, too. For Christmas this year I would like a new President.

Where did you get your twisted sense of humor?

I think from my father, who was a highway patrolman. He had that dark sense of humor that a lot of cops and emergency workers develop as a defense for dealing with death and despair on a daily basis. For instance, I used to never get to sleep on Christmas Eve – I’d stay up all night waiting for Santa, and of course, he’d never come, but my folks wouldn’t get any sleep either because I kept sneaking out of my room to check under the tree. My dad was working the night shift one Christmas Eve, (I was about five, I think) and when he got home at midnight, seeing through the front window that I was still up, he fired his service revolver into the air, then came inside and told me to go to bed, there was no sense waiting up any more, because he had shot Santa off the roof. He was that kind of guy. I think it sort of twisted me.

Another time there was a record sale at a big department store in Columbus (I grew up in Ohio) – they were selling albums for only a dollar. My mother couldn’t believe they could be so cheap, and my dad told her it was because there were no holes drilled in them and you had to drill them yourself. She believed it right up to the time they got to the record department, where my mother promptly punched my dad in the arm. I like to think that each of my readers, when they read a particularly humorous passage in on of my books, would like to punch me in the arm. Is that wrong? Does Josh’s microwave dinner trick really work or will my microwave explode if I try it?

I have no idea. I just write that stuff up because I think it’s funny and hope no one sues me if they blow themselves up. Try it, though. Go ahead, try it. No one will know.

Fluke was a Today Show Book Club Book of the Month. Did you enjoy meeting Katie, Matt, Al, and Anne? Was this your first national TV experience?

I only met Anne and Al, Katie and Matt were in Boston at the Democratic Convention. Anne was delightful, and Al seemed very nice, although I only met him in passing. Jeff Greenberg, the travel guy was very nice as well. Yes, it was my first national TV appearance. I was pretty nervous and it probably showed because Anne didn’t really let me say anything. It may be just as well. Nicholas Sparks had chosen me for the book club and he carried the ball for the bulk of the segment. He did a great job and was very generous in the way of compliments about my writing.

I know you often travel to research your novels. Have you been anywhere interesting lately and what are you currently working on?

My next two books are set in San Francisco. I’ve spend a fair amount of time in the city, just wandering around, getting a feel for it, much like I did when I wrote Bloodsucking Fiends. It’s such a beautiful, magical city – the perfect setting for horror stories. The next book is called A Dirty Job, and I can’t say a lot about it, but I think it’s sort of going to the next level as far as the ambition of a supernatural comedy. Okay, I’ll tell you one thing about it, but you have to read it in your big scary voice: THRIFTSHOP OF DEATH. After that, I’m going to write a sequel to Bloodsucking Fiends, my vampire book, called “You Suck: A Love Story”. I’ll probably pick a research intensive story after that, or I may be ready to do a book about Hawaii by then. (Fluke was set in Hawaii, but it really wasn’t about Hawaii. I’m thinking about doing something akin to my Pine Cove books, but with the Hawaiian setting.)

We love reading recommendations—what are you reading right now?

I just finished reading Syrup, by Max Barry, which I liked a lot, a funny novel about the Thunderdome that is soft-drink marketing, and I’m about a hundred pages into China Mieville’s “The Scar,” a dark fantasy, or perhaps steam-punk book, I’m not sure what he’s really doing. He has such an extraordinary imagination that reading his books is like taking a vacation in a Hieronymus Bosch painting. It’s an interesting trip, but when you close your eyes, you see creepy stuff for a while.

Anything else you’d like to add?

People will like you if you give them a copy of The Stupidest Angel for Christmas. It’s guaranteed.