'Bred Crumbs

Moore, Moore, Moore

It can be tough to describe what's so great about the rollicking, cockeyed books of Christopher Moore, whom I finally discovered last summer and am giddily playing catch-up to. Trying to outline his plots just makes people look at you funny, and the beauty of his characters comes from their interaction and dialogue, not their one-line bios.

But now his own work has given me an elevator pitch. Moore's novels are must-reads because, with the relentless logic of a madman, they lead to sentences like this:

Burton reached over the edge of the crevice and fired a shot in the general direction of the cave, then braced himself for return fire from the AK-47, but instead he heard a roaring that sounded like someone had dropped the entire cast of The Lion King in a deep fryer.

So: start with the book that contains that sentence, The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove, or the next one, the amazing Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal. Then join me in working your way randomly through his earlier works, and that should hold us until his newest, Fluke, hits paperback.

One more thing about Lust Lizard: one of its many strengths is that the story is told at times from the points of view of a golden retriever and a sea monster. And one more thing about Lamb: like Monty Python's Life of Brian, it is the kind of wildly funny, irreverent tale that would be denounced as blasphemous by the pious and shallow, but in fact is a more thoughtful and generous consideration of Jesus and religion than you'll ever come across in church.

Go. Read.

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And, of Course, Eyes White Shut

I have to get this out of my system:

Rejected Titles for The Last Samurai

• Suddenly Last Samurai
• I Know What You Did Last Samurai
• You Can't Spell Caucasian Without Asian
• Nippon: Impossible
• Pocky Business
• Maybe In Japan No One Thinks He's Gay

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One Agitated Man

Welcome to the doors of the San Francisco Superior Court building: a seething cauldron of impatience.

Having escaped the call on the first day, I have been summoned to report for jury selection on the afternoon of the second day of my one-week duty period. Getting here has been annoying; the building is in a part of town crosshatched by one-ways, where a lane leading to possible parking lots often will transform without warning into the FREEWAY ONLY turn lane. And once I finally got into the lot, which was full as far as the eye could see, the attendant took my money, said, "Up there on your right," and pointed left. Despite it all, I'm at the building at the appointed time – but the line to get through the metal detector is longer than at most airports.

Waiting brings out the stupidity in people. A guy behind me scoffs at the whole notion of screening for weapons; "If someone uses a gun in a court building, there's no way he's getting out." Um, genius: as often as not, someone who would do something as reckless and hateful as kill people in a court building is not remotely concerned with whether he gets out. The brain has disconnected, please hang up and try again.

As I approach the gate, I'm wondering whether my keys, which for some reason are a collection of lesbian proportions, will set off the detector. But that's where my stupidity kicks in; it has not occurred to me that I have a tiny, dot-com-giveaway-relic pocketknife on my keychain. I know to leave it at home before I hit the airways, but nothing in my juror instructions mentioned things you can and can't bring into this building.

The guard, with the surliness of someone who hates his job and welcomes the chance to inconvenience someone else, tells me I have to "leave the knife outside." No suggestions, no checking it in, nothing. I'm supposed to just, what, entrust it to a squirrel?

So next I'm hoofing the three blocks back to the car, feeling pissed off at first, but then, freed. I tried to perform my civic duty on time, and it's not my fault that I broke a rule I wasn't told about. This walk is on their dime, buster.

Twenty-two minutes after I arrived, I finally reach the juror holding pen. After the clerk is done humilating another citizen, I check in and brace for whatever bureaucratic abuse awaits me. Instead, I get a polite acknowledgement and a cordial invitation to take a seat. After wandering through a big room rich with the ambience of a bus station, I huddle in a corner where a snowy TV screen is tuned to the Man Channel. I slump into a seat, hoping the inescapable hunkiness of Jonathan LaPaglia will soothe my vexed nerves. (Thank goodness they took that dull one-and-a-half-inch blade away from me!)

Seven Days gives way to an unfortunately Troi-intensive ST:TNG, in which utterly implausible time bubbles are furrowing the brows of the Enterprise crew, which for some reason is not on the Enterprise but instead on a palatial runabout, when a clerk begins to reel off randomly selected names to send to a courtroom. The room half empties, but I am left behind. And in just another ten minutes, the same clerk announces that no more jurors will be needed today, and the rest of us are free to go.

By sitting around a gloomy room for a half-hour, I have fulfilled my juradical duty and will not be bothered again for at least a year.

The system, she works.

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