The Best Laid Plans

This month (or this year) began with some ideas (read:plans) on how things were going to go and none of that has worked out exactly. Let’s start with reading, as an example, the *idea* was to jump into Hemingway. After a suggestion on a previous post I started with Islands In The Stream, great. That read, in theory should have plunged me into a Hemingway tangent and the plan would have been realized. What actually happened? The kids died. If you don’t know what that means, it’s cool, I will elaborate in another post at another time. Will have to suffice to say, the book got set down and it took several fits and starts over a few weeks for me to pick it back up. Not to worry though, there was a tangent and it came under the author heading of Christopher Moore.

And the Book of the Year goes to….


My friend said, read these books, Christopher Moore is doing a book tour and we’re going.  Truth be told, I was reticent as I had read a Moore book before, Practical Demon Keeping, and I did not care for it. At all. Alas, I am *still* not in charge. I like vampires and his (Moore’s) new book is the third in his vampire tales, alright. My Moore-ish adventure began with Bloodsucking Fiends and You Suck the precursors to the upcoming release. Followed in short order by, Coyote Blue (well, sort of), A Dirty Job, Lamb and currently The Stupidest Angel.

On Demons & Coyotes

Not entirely certain what it is about these two books that did not work for me, but, yeah, did NOT work for me. I *suffered* through Practical Demon Keeping as it is not my habit to leave a book unfinished. Not entirely certain why I can’t walk away from a book if I don’t like it, BUT, I do have the satisfaction of knowing that if I can just get through it I never have to read another one again.

About that.

My friend’s enthusiasm for Moore, he is her favorite (and she is one of my favorite people, see how this works?) is the means by which I found myself roped in, again. Maybe I missed something? Maybe *I* got it wrong? well, had I begun my latest foray into Moore’s works with Coyote Blue it would have ended right then and there. I can tell you that what bothered me, right off the bat, was his depiction of an Indian, any Indian. It is a button and a peeve. As an American historian by training and a culturalist to boot most depictions of ‘Native Americans’ irk me. Moore, no exception. What is of note here and it has nothing to do with the merits of his work? I closed the book. Not going to do it. Several chapters in, I quit. Then I returned it to my friend and said, ‘Nope. Stopped reading.’ It’s her favorite. Ha! Nothing to be done for it, however, I had already told the truth.


And the Lord said…


Read this book. Okay, the Lord had nothing to do with it. If you only ever read one Christopher Moore book, in your life, let it be Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal. Sweet Mother O’ God, this is hands down one of the funniest books that I have EVER read. Not only did I laugh, chuckle, guffaw and peal may way through this book-the ‘message’ (you know the one) in the end (you know which one) remains completely intact. Brilliant.


One Response

  1. Stupidest Angel: You simply cannot go wrong with Zombies, Santa Claus, and a terribly awesome fruit bat. Ray Ban wearing fruit bat, even. And possibly my favorite angel ever. It and Lamb crack me up and just make me happy. I’m partial to Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove as well.

    Never have finished Coyote, though I keep thinking I could if I tried hard enough.

    Have you read I Killed Hemingway? It rather restored my faith in myself with regard to my inability to read Hemingway in a serious manner. The book is not brilliant, by any means (pacing, pacing), but it was a lovely and loving send up of Hemingway scholars and impersonators, who are really second only to comparative literature scholars (of all stripes) in over-weaning angst. I say that, of course, with all love in my heart, since I am one of the latter. Nearly made me want to go dust off the Hemingway on the shelf.

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