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Christmas crept into Pine Cove like a creeping Christmas thing: dragging garland, ribbon, and sleigh bells, oozing eggnog, reeking of pine, and threatening festive doom like a cold sore under the mistletoe.
'Twas the night (okay, more like the week) before Christmas, and all through the tiny community of Pine Cove, California, people are busy buying, wrapping, packing, and generally getting into the holiday spirit. It is the hap-hap-happiest time of the year, after all.
But not everybody is feeling the joy. Little Joshua Barker is in desperate need of a holiday miracle. No, he's not on his deathbed; no, his dog hasn't run away from home. But Josh is sure that he saw Santa take a shovel to the head, and now the seven-year-old has only one prayer: Please, Santa, come back from the dead.
But hold on! There's an angel waiting in the wings. (Wings, get it?) It's none other than the Archangel Raziel come to Earth seeking a small child with a wish that needs granting. Unfortunately, our angel's not sporting the brightest halo in the bunch, and before you can say "Kris Kringle," he's botched his sacred mission and sent the residents of Pine Cove headlong into Christmas chaos, culminating in the most hilarious and horrifying holiday party the town has ever seen.
Only Christopher Moore, the man who brought you the outrageous lost gospel Lamb and the hysterical fish tale Fluke could have devised a new holiday classic that tugs at the heartstrings and serves up a healthy slice of fruitcake to boot.
Move over, Charles Dickensit's Christopher Moore time.
While this book is not Mr. Moore's best or wildest, it is buoyant enough to look like his big, overdue breakout. Chalk that up to the confluence of fruit bat, Warrior Babe, handcuffs and merrily warped holiday spirit. And his earlier work has reached critical mass, to the point at which Mr. Moore is clearly the unhinged Hiaasen. He's "Daily Show"-funny and willing to subvert anything, even the "pile of dead Kringle" that sets this fractured fairy tale in motion.
More Reviews and RecommendationsWith a body of work that boasts some of the most outlandish plots and outrageous characters ever to make it onto the printed page, Christopher Moore is rapidly making a name for himself as the clown prince of contemporary fiction. It may be a dirty job, but Moore is more than up to the task.
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April 06, 2009: I had to special order this fine little book, but enjoyed it very much. This time we are back in Pine Cove for more fun and games with Theo and the local crew. If you liked "Lust Lizard" or "Practial Demonkeeping", you will love this one.
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December 28, 2008: Only Christopher Moore could write a Christmas tale that includes Santa, brain-eating zombies, IKEA, a Micronesian fruit bat, and the DUMBEST angel you will ever find. "The Stupidest Angel" helps to bring the holidays into perspective. After all, you could have brain-eating zombies after you.
I Also Recommend: A Dirty Job.
Name:
Christopher Moore
Current Home:
Hawaii and San Francisco, California
Date of Birth:
August 05, 1958
Place of Birth:
Toledo, Ohio
Awards:
Quill Award, Science Fiction/Fantasy/Horror Book of the Year, for The Stupidest Angel, 2005 and A Dirty Job, 2006
A 100-year-old ex-seminarian and a demon set off together on a psychotic road trip...
Christ's wisecracking childhood pal is brought back from the dead to chronicle the Messiah's "missing years"...
A mild-mannered thrift shop owner takes a job harvesting souls for the Grim Reaper...
Whence come these wonderfully weird scenarios? From the fertile imagination of Christopher Moore, a cheerfully demented writer whose absurdist fiction has earned him comparisons to master satirists like Kurt Vonnegut, Terry Pratchett, and Douglas Adams.
Ever since his ingenious debut, 1992's Practical Demonkeeping, Moore has attracted an avid cult following. But, over the years, as his stories have become more multi-dimensional and his characters more morally complex, his fan base has expanded to include legions of enthusiastic general readers and appreciative critics.
Asked where his colorful characters come from, Moore points to his checkered job resume. Before becoming a writer, he worked at various times as a grocery clerk, an insurance broker, a waiter, a roofer, a photographer, and a DJ -- experiences he has mined for a veritable rogue's gallery of unforgettable fictional creations. Moreover, to the delight of hardcore fans, characters from one novel often resurface in another. For example, the lovesick teen vampires introduced in 1995's Bloodsucking Fiends are revived (literally) for the 2007 sequel You Suck -- which also incorporates plot points from 2006's A Dirty Job.
For a writer of satirical fantasy, Moore is a surprisingly scrupulous researcher. In pursuit of realistic details to ground his fiction, he has been known to immerse himself in marine biology, death rituals, Biblical scholarship, and Goth culture. He has been dubbed "the thinking man's Dave Barry" by none other than The Onion, a publication with a particular appreciation of smart humor.
As for story ideas, Moore elaborates on his website: "Usually [they come] from something I read. It could be a single sentence in a magazine article that kicks off a whole book. Ideas are cheap and easy. Telling a good story once you get an idea is hard." Perhaps. But, to judge from his continued presence on the bestseller lists, Chris Moore appears to have mastered the art.
In researching his wild tales, Moore has done everything from taking excursions to the South Pacific to diving with whales. So what is left for the author to tackle? He says he'd like to try riding an elephant.
One of the most memorably weird moments in Moore's body of work is no fictional invention. The scene in Bloodsucking Fiendswhere the late-night crew of a grocery store bowls with frozen turkeys is based on Moore's own experiences bowling with frozen turkeys while working the late shift at a grocery store.
What was the book that most influenced your life or your career as a writer?
Cannery Row by John Steinbeck. In Cannery Row, Steinbeck writes about very flawed people, but with great affection, and by doing so, shows us that it is our flaws that make us human, and that is what we share, that is our humanity. A friend of mine used to say, "He writes with the voice of a benevolent God." In the process, the book is also very funny. I think I saw that as a model, as a guide. I'd always written humor that was fairly edgy, but here was a guy writing with great power and gentle humor. I was moved and inspired.
What are your ten favorite books, and what makes them special to you?
What are some of your favorite films, and what makes them unforgettable to you?
What types of music do you like? Is there any particular kind you like to listen to when you're writing?
I like rock 'n' roll, the Stones, Springsteen, U2, Foo Fighters, as well as singer-songwriters like Sheryl Crow, Aimee Mann, and John Hiatt, but I don't listen to any of those when I'm writing. When I'm writing I listen to acid jazz or ambient groove or chill music, stuff with a steady, jazzy beat, but no words. Bands like Baby Mammoth, Fila Brasilia, and Afterlife -- usually on Groove Salad, an Internet radio station. Sometimes I'll put on Gershwin or Bach if the mood strikes: I like Rhapsody in Blue and the Brandenburg Concerto No. 3. Seems like stuff should be happening when those songs are playing.
If you had a book club, what would it be reading?
Sailing Around the Room Alone by Billy Collins. It's a collection of poetry, spare and elegant and very, very funny. He catches the spirit of a moment as well as any Japanese haiku poet, yet he has a great sense of silliness and irony. Someone nearly forced me to read this book, putting it in my hand, physically, again and again, and I'm forever grateful. When I needed to think about Death and the importance of the moments of our lives and how to express them, Billy Collins inspires me.
What are your favorite kinds of books to give -- and get -- as gifts?
I like getting art and photography books as gifts, because I normally wouldn't buy them for myself. I also like it when someone gives me a hardcover of a book I really love. Something to keep. It doesn't have to be a first edition or anything, just something I can read over and over again. On some occasions, I've been given books I completely didn't want, like Billy Collins, or Steve Kluger's The Last Days of Summer, only to be completely surprised and delighted.
Do you have any special writing rituals? For example, what do you have on your desk when you're writing?
Everything, including my feet. Really. Right now I'm sitting in the middle of a nest of chaos. I have a big, L-shaped desk, and there's not a free inch of it. It would take two pages to list all the crap on my desk. (I know -- I've tried it.) Consistently, there's always a cup a coffee and a bottle of water there.
Many writers are hardly "overnight success" stories. How long did it take for you to get where you are today? Any rejection-slip horror stories or inspirational anecdotes?
I've been writing professionally for about 15 years now, and I make a pretty good living, which is, I suppose, what you're going for when you start this journey. When I was 16 I decided I wanted to write for a living, but since I didn't really believe I could make enough to live on, I went to college for photography. I got sidetracked for a few years, and then when I was 25 or so, I went to a writer's conference where people said that I was pretty good, that I ought to give it a whirl.
I started getting serious right about then, and I quit my job as an insurance broker and moved to a town where it was cheaper to live and I could do work that didn't take much of my mental energy. I waited tables and such. It was eight years before I sold my first book. I didn't really go through a huge gauntlet of rejections. The challenge for me was developing the discipline to actually finish a book. After I finished my first book, it took about eleven months to sell it, but it didn't feel as if I was struggling. The writing was the hard part.
What tips or advice do you have for writers still looking to be discovered?
Do the work and keep doing the work. Send it out and keep sending it out. If you're writing stories that interest you and challenge you, then they will probably interest and challenge someone else, and the bottom line is, you'll get some satisfaction out of doing the work as well as getting the rewards for it. I don't think I had any success at writing until I gave up worry about being a success and just tried to write stories that I'd like to read.
Getting a Life
When you write books for a living, it doesn't take long to realize that if you don't do something, you're going to spend the bulk of your life in a room, alone, making clicky noises on a keyboard. I think I realized that early on, so I try to pick the subjects of my books so every other one gets me out there doing something. For Island of the Sequined Love Nun, I went to a small island in Micronesia and lived with the natives. (Way overrated, by the way, that "life on a tropical island." Chairs and hot showers are your friends.)
My next book, The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove, would be set in the town I was living in, but I got to do research on psycho-pharmaceuticals, and since most of my friends were on anti-depressants, I got to go out to lunch with them a lot and ask them personal questions. The next book would be Lamb, which took me to Israel, and the first century, but most of the research was academic, so the next project was Fluke, where I lived around and worked with marine mammal biologists for two seasons in Maui. That was an amazing experience that actually culminated in being able to get in the water with singing humpbacks.
So life kind of oscillates for me, from my office to the outside world, and the great thing is, now my readers write me and offer glimpses into their lives. Sometimes I take them up on it. When I needed to know how to steal a 747 for Island of the Sequined Love Nun, I contacted an airline pilot who loved my books. (It wasn't as sensitive back then as it is now.) There's always some cool thing to learn coming around the corner.
More Advice for Aspiring Writers
It's funny how new writers will always ask you how to get an agent, but they hardly ever ask anything about the craft. I've written ten books, I know a lot about the craft. I've only ever gotten an agent once, and that was fifteen years ago, by a complete luck. I don't know anything about getting an agent. I don't think people realize that getting published is sort of like being born -- if you get it right, you only have to do it once.
Philosophy
I pretty much believe that irony is the strongest force in the universe, and I think that someday, some scholar is going to be able to take all of my books and be able to prove that, by the clever application of mathematics, computer science, and advanced weaselocity.
Other Interests
I like to scuba dive and ocean kayak. I'm not particularly good at those things, but they put me in touch with the ocean and my own mortality pretty quickly (particularly because I'm not very good at them). That's always an inspiration, because after I survive getting slammed against some rocks by a ten-foot wave, or hurling through my regulator underwater and watching colorful tropical fish eating my lunch chunks, I really appreciate getting back to my desk. I'm thankful that people will pay to read stuff I make up and I don't have to actually do anything to make a living.
Christmas crept into Pine Cove like a creeping Christmas thing: dragging garland, ribbon, and sleigh bells, oozing eggnog, reeking of pine, and threatening festive doom like a cold sore under the mistletoe.
'Twas the night (okay, more like the week) before Christmas, and all through the tiny community of Pine Cove, California, people are busy buying, wrapping, packing, and generally getting into the holiday spirit. It is the hap-hap-happiest time of the year, after all.
But not everybody is feeling the joy. Little Joshua Barker is in desperate need of a holiday miracle. No, he's not on his deathbed; no, his dog hasn't run away from home. But Josh is sure that he saw Santa take a shovel to the head, and now the seven-year-old has only one prayer: Please, Santa, come back from the dead.
But hold on! There's an angel waiting in the wings. (Wings, get it?) It's none other than the Archangel Raziel come to Earth seeking a small child with a wish that needs granting. Unfortunately, our angel's not sporting the brightest halo in the bunch, and before you can say "Kris Kringle," he's botched his sacred mission and sent the residents of Pine Cove headlong into Christmas chaos, culminating in the most hilarious and horrifying holiday party the town has ever seen.
Only Christopher Moore, the man who brought you the outrageous lost gospel Lamb and the hysterical fish tale Fluke could have devised a new holiday classic that tugs at the heartstrings and serves up a healthy slice of fruitcake to boot.
Move over, Charles Dickensit's Christopher Moore time.
While this book is not Mr. Moore's best or wildest, it is buoyant enough to look like his big, overdue breakout. Chalk that up to the confluence of fruit bat, Warrior Babe, handcuffs and merrily warped holiday spirit. And his earlier work has reached critical mass, to the point at which Mr. Moore is clearly the unhinged Hiaasen. He's "Daily Show"-funny and willing to subvert anything, even the "pile of dead Kringle" that sets this fractured fairy tale in motion.
Hilarity abounds in Moore's latest satirical gem. Sleepy Pine Cove, Calif., is abuzz with Christmas spirit, but Lena Marquez is fed up with her despicable ex-husband, Dale Pearson. On his way home from playing Santa Claus at the local lodge, Dale spies sneaky Lena uprooting his Monterey pines; he pulls a gun on her, she lashes out with a shovel and-oops!-kills him. Seven-year-old Josh Barker, thinking he's just seen the murder of Santa, prays for a miracle to save Christmas. To Lena's rescue comes Tucker Case, a slimy, reformed Casanova and DEA pilot, who gives her an alibi and sweeps her off her feet. The marijuana-cultivating town constable, Theo Crowe, suspects foul play, but Tucker intervenes with a blackmail scheme to keep the crime buried. Meanwhile, there's a new arrival in town: the glowingly blond Archangel Raziel (last seen in Lamb) has come "dirtside" on a "miracle mission" involving Josh's wish and reviving the town's dearly departed. Pine Cove's biggest challenge surfaces as comically reanimated zombies begin to rise and feast on the living, and a huge El Ni o-induced storm swirls. This little slice of perverse Christmas cheer is enough to make even the most cynical Scrooge guffaw. Agent, Nicholas Ellison. (Oct.) Forecast: Moore's reputation for quality satire and the book's compact size should make hand-selling this as easy as pie. Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Loading...Christmas crept into Pine Cove like a creeping Christmas thing: dragging garland, ribbon, and sleigh bells, oozing eggnog, reeking of pine, and threatening festive doom like a cold sore under the mistletoe.
Pine Cove, her pseudo-Tudor architecture all tarted up in holiday quaintage -- twinkle lights in all the trees along Cypress Street, fake snow blown into the corner of every shop's windows, miniature Santas and giant candles hovering illuminated beneath every streetlight-- opened to the droves of tourists from Los Angeles, San Francisco, and the Central Valley searching for a truly meaningful moment of Christmas commerce. Pine Cove, sleepy California coastal village -- a toy town, really, with more art galleries than gas stations, more wine-tasting rooms than hardware stores -- lay there, as inviting as a drunken prom queen, as Christmas loomed, only five days away. Christmas was coming, and with Christmas this year, would come the Child. Both were vast and irresistible, and miraculous. Pine Cove was expecting only one of the two.
Which is not to say that the locals didn't get into the Christmas spirit. The two weeks before and after Christmas provided a welcome wave of cash into the town's coffers, tourist-starved since summer. Every waitress dusted off her Santa hat and clip-on reindeer antlers and checked to make sure that there were four good pens in her apron. Hotel clerks steeled themselves for the rage of last-minute overbookings, while housekeepers switched from their normal putrid baby-powder air fresheners to a more festive putrid pine and cinnamon. Down at the Pine Cove Boutique they put a "Holiday Special" sign on the hideous reindeer sweater and marked it up for the tenth consecutive year. The Elks,Moose, Masons, and VFWs, who were basically the same bunch of drunk old guys, planned furiously for their annual Christmas parade down Cypress Street, the theme of which this year would be Patriotism in the Bed of a Pickup (mainly because that had been the theme of their Fourth of July parade and everyone still had the decorations). Many Pine Covers even volunteered to man the Salvation Army kettles down in front of the post office and the Thrifty-Mart in two-hour shifts, sixteen hours a day. Dressed in their red suits and fake beards, they rang their bells like they were going for dog-spit gold at the Pavlov Olympics.
"Give up the cash, you cheap son of a bitch," said Lena Marquez, who was working the kettle that Monday, five days before Christmas. Lena was following Dale Pearson, Pine Cove's evil developer, through the parking lot, ringing the bejeezus out of him as he headed for his truck. On his way into the Thrifty-Mart, he'd nodded to her and said, "Catch you on the way out," but when he emerged eight minutes later, carrying a sack of groceries and a bag of ice, he blew by her kettle like she was using it to render tallow from building inspectors' butts and he needed to escape the stench.
"It's not like you can't afford a couple of bucks for the less fortunate."
She rang her bell especially hard right by his ear and he spun around, swinging the bag of ice at her about hip level.
Lena jumped back. She was thirty-eight, lean, darkskinned, with the delicate neck and finely set jawline of a flamenco dancer; her long black hair was coiled into two Princess Leia cinnabuns on either side of her Santa hat. "You can't take a swing at Santa! That's wrong in so many ways that I don't have time to enumerate them."
"You mean to count them," Dale said, the soft winter sunlight glinting off a new set of veneers he'd just had installed on his front teeth. He was fifty-two, almost completely bald, and had strong carpenter's shoulders that were still wide and square, despite the beer gut hanging below.
"I mean it's wrong -- you're wrong -- and you're cheap," and with that Lena put the bell next to his ear again and shook it like a red-suited terrier shaking the life out of a screaming brass rat.
Dale cringed at the sound and swung the ten-pound bag of ice in a great underhanded arc that caught Lena in the solar plexus and sent her backpedaling across the parking lot, gasping for breath. That's when the ladies at BULGES called the cops -- well, cop.
Bulges was a women's fitness center located just above the parking lot of the Thrifty-Mart, and from their treadmills and stair-climbing machines, the BULGES members could watch the ins and outs of the local market without feeling as if they were actively spying. So what had started as a moment of sheer glee and a mild adrenaline surge for the six of them who were watching as Lena chased Dale through the parking lot, turned quickly to shock as the evil developer thwacked the Latin Santa-ette in the breadbasket with a satchel of minicubes. Five of the six merely missed a step or gasped, but Georgia Bauman -- who had her treadmill cranked up to eight miles per hour at that very moment, because she was trying to lose fifteen pounds by Christmas and fit into a red-sequined sheath cocktail dress her husband had bought for her in a fit of sexual idealism -- bowled backward off her treadmill and landed in a colorful spandex tangle of yoga students who had been practicing on the mats behind her.
"Ow, my ass chakra!"
"That's you're root chakra."
"Feels like my ass."
"Did you see that? He nearly knocked her off her feet. Poor thing."
"Should we see if she's all right?"
"Someone should call Theo."
The exercisers opened their cell phones in unison, like the Jets flicking switchblades as they gaily danced into a West Side Story gang-fight to the death.
Continues...
Excerpted from The Stupidest Angel by Christopher Moore Copyright © 2005 by Christopher Moore. Excerpted by permission.
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