Christopher Moore's Blog

As you know, I subscribe to word of the day at Dictionary.com, which is a worthwhile thing to do, however it does sort of make you feel like you have an irritating friend with a better vocabulary than you, who e-mails you every day. While I won’t always share the wordadaday with you, today’s word seemed particularly useful, and frankly, I didn’t know it had a verb form. So here you go:

abominate uh-BOM-uh-nayt, transitive verb: To hate in the highest degree; to detest intensely; to loathe; to abhor.

I had no wish to study or learn anything, and as for Latin, I abominated it. –Charles Tyng, [1′ target=’_blank’>Before the Wind

“Sir Laurence,” he said, smiling wanly, “I detest literature. I abominate the theatre. I have a horror of culture. I am only interested in magic!” –John Lahr (editor), [2′ target=’_blank’>The Diaries of Kenneth Tynan _________________________________________________________

Abominate comes from Latin abominari, “to deprecate as a bad omen, to hate, to detest,” from ab- + omen, “an omen.”

Synonyms: abhor, detest, hate, loathe. [3′ target=’_blank’>Find more at Thesaurus.com.

ME AGAIN:

Since fundamentalist Christians often refer to homosexual behavior as “an abomination”, and the root of the word abomination, is to deprecate as a bad omen, to hate, to detest,, are they, in fact, refering to gays and lesbians as “The Hated”? How does this reconcile with the Christian doctrine of love and forgiveness?

Discuss.

Since a majority of Americans appear to(along with the President) oppose Gay Marriage, does that make a Constitutional Amendment banning it right?

Discuss

Compare and contrast the proposed “anti-gay marraige amendment with the 1846 Dred Scott decision by the Supreme Court which, by declaring the Missouri Compromise of 1820 unconstitutional, allowed for slavery in all states.

Discuss

The first article of the 14th Amendendment of the Constitution reads: All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside. No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.

When the amendment says, “No state shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States,” are they talking about “straight” citizens only, or does the phrase “all persons” actually mean “all motherfucking persons, just like it says, you paranoid, biggoted, flock of asshats”? (You know who you are, flocking over there.)

Discuss.

Exercise: Use “abominate” in a sentence.

Drive thru, please.

Last Friday, the 23rd of July.

So, it all started around the tenth of the July, I got a call from my editor telling me that Nicholas Sparks had chosen Fluke to be the next book on the Today Show Book Club. The M.O. of the club, evidently, is to have a very well known author pick the book of a lesser known author. Now Nicholas Sparks is second only to J.K. Rowling in number of simultaneous books on bestseller lists, so whether you like love stories or not, he is very well known. I met him about eight years ago when he was at the Northern California Booksellers Convention in Oakland, where he was promoting his first book, The Notebook. He seemed like a pleasant enough guy, and we had a couple of friendly exchanges as we were signing books at adjacent tables, but that was about it.

Anyway, part of the agreement to do the Today Show Book Club is that you must tell no one. All the parties involved have to sign a confidentiality agreement, and if you tell someone and it gets back to NBC, they’ll cancel your appearance and send that obnoxious fucker from Fear Factor to your house to make your family eat worms. The surprise is a big deal, which is why I haven’t posted anything here until now.

So it began. Meanwhile, the process of remodeling on our house was going on, and the contractor we had hired to put in the floors and remodel my office got notice that he and his wife’s application to adopt a Chinese baby had come through and he had to take off for China. (We are taking them a case of Kung Pao Infamil as soon as they get back.) The painters were due in two weeks and there was no one on the island who could do the work before the painters came. Long story short, we flew Charlee’s brother over to do the carpentry. The bad news is that I was going to have to help because he doesn’t have a crew. For two weeks we installed flooring and did other construction things that I am totally not qualified to do — in 90 degree 90% humidity weather – and all the time I’m thinking, “I’m going to have to go on National TV for the first time with fewer than the regulation number of fingers.”

I survived filanges intact, but after we dropped Charlee’s brother off at the airport I realized that:

A. I had no clothes I could wear on TV. (I had thrown away my only pair on non-sneaker shoes because they turned green and fuzzy, as leather tends to do in this climate.) B. I had to lose 20 lbs in 4 days. (My only pair of non-scuzzbag pants were bought by a younger, skinnier fellah.) C. I had to get in shape, have my teeth whitened, and make a deal with the devil to make me younger. (My sorcery skills are way, way out of tune.) D. I had to figure out what I would say. (“Hi Katie, I truly enjoyed the video tour of your colon. I’ve brought a few Polaroids of mine to share with your viewers at home.”)

I’m writing this on Friday before I leave on Monday night for New York. Yes, the show isn’t until Thursday, but it’s twelve hours flying time, without layovers, usually closer to 15 hours, which puts me into NY mid Tuesday. The show films notoriously early in the morning, so I would have to be there at least by Wednesday, but if something went wrong, as it often does connecting through LA out of Hawaii, I’d be hosed. I thought the extra day prudent – especially since I might need to buy pants, shoes, a jacket, and get liposucted.

LATER THAT NIGHT

Well, I spent all evening trying to whiten my teeth with those little Crest strips. I used about half a box. They are kind of like cellophane with special whitening slime on them. You stick them on your teeth and then they slide off and you get whitening slime on your tongue. My tongue is so white it looks like I just licked the paint off a hospital ship. My teeth, sadly, are still a gray. Man, if I’d known I was going to have to go on the Today Show next Thursday I wouldn’t have smoked for twenty-five years.

So, perhaps I am a little vain, but only in the face of being seen by millions of people. Okay, I’ve officially just freaked myself out by typing out the phrase “millions of people”. You guys who have seen me speak before a crowd of tens have no idea how I can fold in front of a camera. Millions of people, and they won’t know that I can write a mean Jesus story, or that I will come to their house and help them move and they won’t even have to buy me beers – no, all they’ll know is that my teeth are a little gray and that I may be slightly cross-eyed. No, it’s this left eye, it’s sort of the stupid one.

NOTE TO SELF: Get eye patch before Thursday.

There is a good chance, however, that some act of terrorism will preempt my book club thingy. I have terrific faith in the power of irony. (If we let a random act of terrorism disrupt our appearance on the Today Show, haven’t the terrorists won?)

TUESDAY NIGHT

I left Kauai at 10:00 PM Monday night and finally got to my hotel at 4:30 PM Tuesday. This wasn’t a mix-up, this is how it is.

Anyway, I got backed up in security – kept setting off the metal detector. Look, I fly a lot, I don’t carry metal in my pockets. I know better. So I’m looking at the guy like, “Dude, you have to be joking.” But I go to the grope zone and he goes at it. And finally, after I get very close to losing it, it turns out I am carrying metal.

Tooth Whitening Strips in their little foil wrappers.

That’s right, all week I’ve been trying to whiten my teeth with those little strips, and because of it, I got sent to security. That’s some embarrassing shit, that’s all I’m saying.

Now, I iron. I’m ironing a jacket and two shirts and two pairs of pants. I’m not planning on wearing all of those, but, you know, I could spill coffee on one jacket and one pair of pants and one shirt, and then I’d have an emergency back-up. I’m not sending them out to be pressed because, you know, they could get lost. Fuck, the pressure.

Thursday Morning – Early

Woke up at 5:OO AM with my stomach tumbling. No going back to sleep now. They’ll bring coffee at 7:OO, at which time I can start freaking about my hair and stuff. It’s two minutes camera time, max, so how badly can I screw it up. Of course Nicholas Spark wasn’t supposed to get into town until late last night, so maybe he won’t be there. I’m very skeptical about this all coming off.

Turns out that all of the Borders Managers got news of the Book Club Choice yesterday so they could inform their staff in the morning – so when I got a note last night from a Borders person congratulating me I sorta freaked, thinking that someone had spilled the beans and that they would pull the whole segment.

Leslie Cohen, the Perinnieal publicity person, will come to get me at 8:40, so if I don’t pass out or burst into flames between now and then, I should be okay.

Where the fuck is the coffee!

AFTER THE SHOW

Well, my editor and my publicist picked me up in a town car and took me three blocks to the back door of NBC. They led us into the green room where Nicholas Sparks and his publicist were waiting with a couple of other guest who were scheduled.

The short of it, I didn’t throw up, Nicholas Sparks couldn’t have been nicer, and neither could have Anne Curry. I think I looked about 1000 years old on the tape, but that might be because I am a thousand years old. Either way, it’s over, now you know, and I’m off to airport to fly home.

I get on a plane in a few hours to fly to NYC. It’s almost 15 hours with layovers, and with the six time zones crossed, I lose something like 21 hours.

I can’t tell you why I’m going there. I had to sign a vow of secrecy. It’s secret author stuff. SECRET. AUTHOR. STUFF. S.A.S.

Do you think this has something to do with the 911 commission saying that the attacks on the World Trade Center was a “failure of imagination”? Maybe they are bringing in all the people with overactive imaginations to fight terrorism, you think? Will it be like me and Neil Gaiman figuring out how sexy Goth babes can take over the Pentagon by the clever application of alienation, Dead Can Dance CDs, and body piercing? (“For the Love of God, Colonel, they’re pumping clove’s smoke under the doors, we’re doomed!)

That could be it, but I can’t say. They made me sign a thing not to tell, so I’m not. Forget it.

Thursday. That’s when you’ll know. That’s when I can tell you, maybe. As long as everything goes okay, that is.

Could it be that they want me in New York before the Republican convention, scouting the free speech zones? Maybe they want me on the first response team, thinking up snotting things to say between the speeches. Could be, but I’m not saying. (“You baby-killing doof-tool of an oil-whore! You know, political stuff.)

All I’m saying is, it’s big. Huge. (Imagine the Author Guy balloon making its way down Fifth Ave on the Macy’s Day Parade. Big, tan, goofy Author Guy balloon in a Hawaiian shirt, menacing the crowd, scaring the bejeezus out of the Underdog balloon.)

Thursday. If I can, I’ll hip you to the whole story. But for now, I can’t say a friggin word. Don’t even ask.

So, you know what’s weird? To come around the corner at the Foodland and come face to face with James Bond. That happened to me about an hour ago. And for those of you who tease me about my Hawaiian shirts — Mr. Brosnan was wearing goofy floral board shorts and a t-shirt and flip-flops. (Okay, they were probably rocket flip-flops, but still.)

Other than that, my life consists of tearing carpet out of my house and being called into different rooms of the house by the lovely and talented Chuck to look at the various colors she has painted on the walls. Know what? There are a shitload of shades of brown.

Evidently I have just inheirited a shitload of cash from my relatives in Nigeria.

Later, Losers!

It was in Chicago, but I was too busy to tell you about it, so I’ll tell you about it now.

I checked into my hotel, and it was a very nice hotel, one of chain of boutique hotels that are cool enough to seem kind of trendy, but not so cool that the entire staff appears to be vampires (Soho Grand, NY). These hotels are usually three degrees more whimsical than would be, oh, say a brothel designed by Tim Burton but left out of all but the director’s cut of Pee Wee’s Big Adventure. Nice, but fun, is what I’m saying.

Anyway, when I get to my room, there’s a goldfish by the door. And I look down the hall, and there’s another room with a goldfish by the door, so I realize I’m not the only one.

Well I’m going to be in town for less than forty-eight hours, and the fish is sort of lying on the bottom, on a bed of very-whimsical blue and green marbles, and frankly, he doesn’t look like he’s long for this world. And I think, “There is no way I’m going to bring him in my room just to worry about him and have him die before checkout.” So I leave him there.

Well, I settle in, turn on the TV, brew a little in-room Starbucks, and I hear some commotion outside in the hall. And I go look.

Noone is there, but the fish is all perked up, sort of fluttering there, looking all hopeful, like he’s auditioning for the sequel to Finding Nemo, but I look around and there’s nothing going on, really, so I close the door and go to check my e-mail.

So maybe ten minutes goes by, and I’ve answered the tenth or so letter explaining why it’s not my call whether I go to [insert your obscure town that no one has ever heard of here’ target=’_blank’>, but, in fact, my tour schedule is determined by a complex equation involving market factors, demographics, and the proximity to hotels that can place me in rooms next to people from the LIKE TO SCREAM DURING JACKHAMMER SEX WHILE THE NEWS BLASTS IN THE BACKGROUND Association. (There’s no acronym, so don’t look for it, they are too busy screwing and screaming over the news to spell anything out.) Anyway, so I start to think about the fish — about how maybe I should let him in — about how the fish down the hall was gone, was probably in the room enjoying some seventy-dollar fish flakes from the mini-bar — about how the fish looked eager to please, and how he would probably be a pretty good little friend for a day or two, if I could get past his damp orangeness.

And I go back to check on the fish, to, in fact, bring him inside…

But he’s gone.

I don’t know where, and now, of course, I can’t very well call the front desk and say, “Hey, what happened to my fish?” Because they’ll say something snotty like, “What fish?” Or, “We assumed that you didn’t want him, so we sent him down to the restaurant, wrapped him in some rice and nouri, and gave him a Japanese name, if you get my meaning, Monsieur.” (God the hotel desk people can be so fucking French sometimes.)

So I don’t know what happened to him. The fish.

Is it too much Dickens in my youth, that makes me think that some day, perhaps years from now, I’ll be surfing, or swimming somewhere, and this huge pair of jaws will emerge from the waves, perhaps snapping off my tibia or fibula or other part, and he will look up at me, through his good eye, the other one under the patch (because I’m sure he’ll have an eye-patch, which will show what a rough time he’s had of it) and as my blood runs from between his teeth, and right before I go into shock, he’ll say, “I’ll bet when you left me in the hallway at that hotel in Chicago, you never thought you’d see me again, huh?”

Fucking fish, anyway.

Mint on the pillow? Yes. Excellent idea, that chocolate before slumber.

Fish by the door? Not so much.

Did I tell you about that? I can’t remember.

I’m counting down hours until I climb on a plane and fly home.

I’m in Alaska, and it’s stunningly beautiful and hideous all at once, but I don’t have the energy to even go outside.

Over 200 people at the event last night. All very nice and extraordinarily patient. I signed books until about 11:pm and still got out before dark. In fact, it was still light enough to read by window light at midnight.

Pictures from Alaska, San Francisco and Worchester will go up when I get home to a high-speed connection. Until then thanks everyone for coming out to the events and for lending moral support thorugh the BBS and E-mail.

So, it’s been Gay Pride week here in San Francisco all week, which, unless you were in the Castro, where they’ve been having parties and activities all weekend, you wouldn’t really know. (Although I must admit, there were a lot of men on the plane here from Boston who had haircuts you generally only see on progressive middle-aged women with money, but that might be a complete coincidence.) But today was the big Gay Pride Parade.

This was my first Gay Pride parade, but I’ll try to report it as best I can.

At first I was confused, because I looked around and no one was clear, so I didn’t understand what they were chanting about. Then I realized that I hadn’t removed the earplugs that I wear to sleep when I’m on the road, and they, in fact, were not saying “We’re Here, We’re Clear, Get Used To It.” My bad. You know, between signings, I go whole days without speaking to another human being… You can lose your skills. But they were definitely not Clear. That would have been cool though, wouldn’t it? Anyway…

It started out with lots and lots of big Gay Cops. And I don’t mean Big Gay Guys in Cop Outfits, because that would come later in the parade, I’m talking real Big Gay Cops. There are many more Big Gay Cops than I would have thought, which sort of explains why you don’t have the sort of thing going on here that you have in LA with the brutality and all. Here it goes like: “No, cuff him while I do his high-lights!”

So that was followed by about twenty minutes of Gay and Lesbian married couples, many of whom carried signs that said they had been together for twenty-five, or thirty-five, or whatever number of years and now they were married. There were big Xerox signs with their marriage licenses on them, a few giant wedding pictures, and way more men in wedding gowns than you really want to see. I will say this, any girl who is mad because one of her friends made her buy a really ugly bridesmaid dress, will feel a lot better about the whole thing after seeing a couple of hairy guys in wedding gowns. This was a very happy, yet pretty adamant group of folks, and the crowd cheered them.

Then Gavin Newsome, the mayor who made the ordinance for all those people to get married came by, and everyone cheered. Gavin had many cute girls in his car so you would know he wasn’t Gay, he just really believes in Gay rights, which is a good thing in San Francisco.

Then came Gay couples with kids, kids of gay couples, people with signs that they loved their two moms or two dads or whatever, and then about five minutes of PFLAGs, which is parents and friends and family of gays and what you need to know – they weren’t dressed any worse than the gay people. In fact, overall, anyone out of costume, regardless of sexual preference, looked pretty tacky, mostly baseball caps and khaki shorts across the board. I’m just saying, they were much less fabulous than I was led to believe.

Then there were Gay firepersons, Gay bank people, Gay flight attendants (I know, redundant, from here I’ll just say G-) G-Latinos, Latinas, Filipenos, Vietnamese, Japanese War Drummers, Hawaiians, Scotchpersons (all looking vaguely like Catholic school girls in their kilts), Cowboys, Road Construction People, but no! no! Indians. That’s right, we could not make a village because we did not have the Indian to be the Indian Village Person… (And no one was Clear, either – now I had expectations.)

Well that was very disappointing. But then they came through by hobby:

Gay Karate, Gay Judo, Gay Close Order Drill Rifle Team (ROTC they were called – I believe it stands for Rifles Out of The Closet or something), Gay Chorus, Gay Hula Peoples, Gay Marching Band Dressed Like the Guys in Men In Black, Gay People waving Swords Around, Gay Clog Dancers (again, redundant) and of course, giant smiling penises of various races, one presumes Gay, but it was not specified. (Now, that said, Lesbians were very well represented in the parade, with some in most of the groups and dominating others – many sisters of Sappho in marching band—but I did not see a single giant smiling vagina, but then, there were definitely places that they could have been concealed.)

(Debunking Myth number 1: Gay people are not better dancers than everyone else. Unless they’re Black.)

Then the groups who identified by fetish and, well, other stuff came by: It was like an outline. First a big sign with LEATHER on it came by. And I was feeling solidarity, because I was wearing leather sneakers and all, but then subcategory Leather A. came through, lots of large people on Harley Davidsons, most of them female, then guys in harnesses and vests, then the Bears. Bears? (Yeah, I was wondering too. It was a big banner that said “Support Bears” There was a rainbow flag with a big paw print on it.) What I wasn’t expecting was a great-big truck full of great-big hairy guys in leather vests. Evidently Bears. A sub-group of leather-vest wearing Gay Guys.

Then you had some S&M people in cages, a few cracking whips, a float full of male strippers giving away Altoids gum (and I don’t even want to know why that was in the Gay Pride parade, but I’m going to just console myself that Gays and Lesbians enjoy being minty fresh more than the rest of us. Shut up, I don’t want to know. LaLaLaLaLa-I can’t hear you. I can’t hear you. )

(Debunking Myth Number 2: Gay People are not all in shape. Many have never seen the inside of a gym. This is obvious when they are wearing far less costume than their individual Body Mass Index would indicate.)

Then there were transvestites, transgendered – marching by which direction they were transing, and a group with POLYMOURPH or something in big letters, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out from their appearance what they were about and I’d never seen the word before so maybe it has something to do with plastic or frogs. Oh yeah, and one old hooker with a sign saying “Support Sex Workers, Don’t Arrest Me, Ask Me to Blow You” — I am not making that up.

Then things got weird. Meaning the whole outline structure seemed to go to hell in a posing pouch and people were just marching along in their individual weirdness and there was a lot of feathers and mylar and eye-shadow, and I had skipped breakfast so I left to get a burger before the grand marshals, Bruce Villanch and Alan Cumming came by. I did wave to Graham Norton, and he looked right at me, I swear.

So, the Clear people may have showed up while I was eating. Overall, although normally I am not a parade person, I thought it had a better sense of humor than most parades, and I was filled with Gay Pride by all the “Lick Bush in 2004” signs. I would give it an 8 out of 10.

Check out the The Tour Pics page for captions, I can’t make this thing put images in with the text.

http://www.chrismoore.com/tourpics2.cfm

Pics are up from Miami and Dartmouth. I’m still waiting for the pictures from Worchester. I forgot my camera that night, but the staff filled in with their own camera and said that they’d send me the pics.

Meanwhile, Dartmouth was great, with people coming from New Hampshire and Pennsylvania, a couple of marine mammal scientists, and Lauren, Hillary, and John from the board. The pic of Lauren, Hill and I didn’t come out. I suspect it was because Hillary used her dark voodoo powers or something.

During the day I went to the Boston Museum of Fine Art for a couple of hours. They had a great collection of Dutch Masters, and I have to say, that Rembrant could really paint, considering he was also making cigars and stuff.

Flew into San Francisco this afternoon, and boy are my arms tired.

So, I watched School of Rock on my computer on the plane up from Miami to Boston — if you like Jack Black, it’s a rental, sort of Bad News Bears meets AC/DC, but cute. If you don’t like Jack Black, get far, far away from it. A whole exit row to myself… It was just swell….

My media escort, Jim, was, for thirty years, a Shakespearean scholar, documentary film maker, and English teacher at a prep school, who, because his wife was sick, had to drive me around (it’s her business). I assume this is because he did something really heinous in a previous life and karma is presenting him with a difficult lesson that only I can teach.

Anyway, he showed me Walden Pond and Ralph Waldo Emerson’s house and Edith Wharton’s house and the bridge where the shot was heard round the world and the Boston Turnpike, which is where Thoreau walked when he needed to go to Cambridge to get a Snickers bar, and even though it was dark and I couldn’t see what he was pointing at, I’m sure all of those things were very historical. I felt enlightened and worldly.

People at the Worchester event were great! The best event so far. Lots of newbies who just took a risk and bought the books even though they’d never heard of me, as well as people who had read everything. Overall a great crowd, including another soldier who did two tours in Iraq, passing my books around the guys in his unit.

The pictures are going to be a little late gettng posted for this one. I forgot my camera and the lovely folks at Tatuniuk Book Store are going to e-mail me theirs.

On to Dartmouth tomorrow. Peace.