why i love christopher moore
i am: present and accounted for
listening to: yog snoring
drinking: glaceau vitamin water (focus)
i finished up my reread of christopher moore's a dirty job last night, and i was so sad for it to end. i'd forgotten what a wonderful escape into the absurb it was, how truly amusing and bizarre, but at the same time engrossing for the storyline. the cover blurb reads, "(a) comically epic battle between the forces of light and darkness ... close to that perfect mix of absurdist humor and genuine human feeling." that sums it up much more nicely than i ever could. but then i'm not a reviewer for the san francisco chronicle.
an excerpt:
"The 1957 Cadillac Eldorado Brougham was the perfect show-off of death machines. It consisted of nearly three tons of steel stamped into a massively mawed, high-tailed beast, lined with enough chrome to build a Terminator and still have parts left over - most of it in long, sharp strips that peeled off on impact and became lethal scythes to flay away pedestrian flesh. Under the four headlights it sported two chrome bumper bullets that looked like unexploded torpedoes or triple G-cup Madonna death boobs. It had a non-collapsible steering column that would impale the driver upon any serious impact, electric windows that could pinch off a kid's head, no seat belts, and a 325 horsepower V8 with such appallingly bad fuel efficiency that you could hear it trying to slurp liquefied dinosaurs out of the ground when it passed. It had a top speed of a hundred and ten miles an hour, mushy, bargelike suspension that could in no way stabilize the car at that speed, and undersized power brakes that wouldn't stop it either. The fins jutting from the back were so high and sharp that the car was a lethal threat to pedestrians even when parked, and the whole package sat on tall, whitewall tires that looked, and generally handled, like oversized powdered doughnuts. Detroit couldn't have achieved more deadly finned ostentatia if they'd covered a killer whale in rhinestones. It was a masterpiece." ...
"Minty Fresh hit the final Morrigan again as he speeded off down the block, took two screeching lefts, then pulled the car to the curb, jumped out, and ran around to the front.
"Oh, goddamn," said Minty Fresh (damn on the downbeat, with pain and sustain.) "Goddamn, my hood and grille are all fucked up. Goddamn, I will tolerate the rising of darkness to cover the world, but you do not fuck with my ride."
He jumped back in the car, threw it into gear, and screeched around the next corner.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to run over the bitches again. You do not fuck with my ride."
"Well, what did you think would happen when you ran them over?"
"Not this. I never ran over anyone before. Don't act like that's a surprise."
Charlie looked at the gleaming interior of the car, the bloodred leather seats, the dash fitted with walnut burl and gold-plated knobs.
"This is a great car. My mailman would love this car."
"Your mailman?"
"He collects vintage pimp wear."
"So what are you trying to say?"
"Nothing."
a quote:
"Have you never met anyone who works in a record store? There's no greater repository of unjustified arrogance in the world." (having worked as a buyer in a record store for three years, i can attest to the 100% accuracy of this statement)
and finally ...
a link:
one of the oddest aspects of this book is the "squirrel people" - little creatures, put together from bits and pieces of animals, dressed in victorian costumes and reanimated with human souls deposited within by a buddhist monk named audrey. in the author's notes and acknowledgements, the squirrel people are mentioned as being based upon the art of monique motil. curious monstrosities, indeed.
okay, breaktime's over. i'm on page 1317 of 1392 in the herbal. my poor hands, but go me.
today's reading: having finished this book that i've just rambled about, i'm now at a loss. i may follow it up with another christopher moore, either fluke or lamb.
listening to: yog snoring
drinking: glaceau vitamin water (focus)
i finished up my reread of christopher moore's a dirty job last night, and i was so sad for it to end. i'd forgotten what a wonderful escape into the absurb it was, how truly amusing and bizarre, but at the same time engrossing for the storyline. the cover blurb reads, "(a) comically epic battle between the forces of light and darkness ... close to that perfect mix of absurdist humor and genuine human feeling." that sums it up much more nicely than i ever could. but then i'm not a reviewer for the san francisco chronicle.
an excerpt:
"The 1957 Cadillac Eldorado Brougham was the perfect show-off of death machines. It consisted of nearly three tons of steel stamped into a massively mawed, high-tailed beast, lined with enough chrome to build a Terminator and still have parts left over - most of it in long, sharp strips that peeled off on impact and became lethal scythes to flay away pedestrian flesh. Under the four headlights it sported two chrome bumper bullets that looked like unexploded torpedoes or triple G-cup Madonna death boobs. It had a non-collapsible steering column that would impale the driver upon any serious impact, electric windows that could pinch off a kid's head, no seat belts, and a 325 horsepower V8 with such appallingly bad fuel efficiency that you could hear it trying to slurp liquefied dinosaurs out of the ground when it passed. It had a top speed of a hundred and ten miles an hour, mushy, bargelike suspension that could in no way stabilize the car at that speed, and undersized power brakes that wouldn't stop it either. The fins jutting from the back were so high and sharp that the car was a lethal threat to pedestrians even when parked, and the whole package sat on tall, whitewall tires that looked, and generally handled, like oversized powdered doughnuts. Detroit couldn't have achieved more deadly finned ostentatia if they'd covered a killer whale in rhinestones. It was a masterpiece." ...
"Minty Fresh hit the final Morrigan again as he speeded off down the block, took two screeching lefts, then pulled the car to the curb, jumped out, and ran around to the front.
"Oh, goddamn," said Minty Fresh (damn on the downbeat, with pain and sustain.) "Goddamn, my hood and grille are all fucked up. Goddamn, I will tolerate the rising of darkness to cover the world, but you do not fuck with my ride."
He jumped back in the car, threw it into gear, and screeched around the next corner.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to run over the bitches again. You do not fuck with my ride."
"Well, what did you think would happen when you ran them over?"
"Not this. I never ran over anyone before. Don't act like that's a surprise."
Charlie looked at the gleaming interior of the car, the bloodred leather seats, the dash fitted with walnut burl and gold-plated knobs.
"This is a great car. My mailman would love this car."
"Your mailman?"
"He collects vintage pimp wear."
"So what are you trying to say?"
"Nothing."
a quote:
"Have you never met anyone who works in a record store? There's no greater repository of unjustified arrogance in the world." (having worked as a buyer in a record store for three years, i can attest to the 100% accuracy of this statement)
and finally ...
a link:
one of the oddest aspects of this book is the "squirrel people" - little creatures, put together from bits and pieces of animals, dressed in victorian costumes and reanimated with human souls deposited within by a buddhist monk named audrey. in the author's notes and acknowledgements, the squirrel people are mentioned as being based upon the art of monique motil. curious monstrosities, indeed.
okay, breaktime's over. i'm on page 1317 of 1392 in the herbal. my poor hands, but go me.
today's reading: having finished this book that i've just rambled about, i'm now at a loss. i may follow it up with another christopher moore, either fluke or lamb.