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Tales from the moe.Republic   The exciting & hilarious book by John Derhak, moe. bassist Rob Derhak's brother John   Featuring original cover art by moe. guitarist Chuck Garvey   Available Now at Borders Books, the moe.Republic, Amazon.com, & just about anywhere you can buy a book!     What they're saying about Tales from the moe.Republic ~The buzz of the moe.Nation and beyond~   "Good old-fashioned storytelling... Derhak leads the reader from one misbegotten historical-tinged fable to another with the breathless abandon of a writer hitting all the notes." ~Randy Ray, Jambands.com "Mr. Derhak's writing style, humorous and endearing, brings the characters to life, like old friends you've known before." Boston Herald "Stephen King meets Prairie Home Companion meets John Steinbeck... What can I say? It's that good!" ~Jackson Grant, Downeast Way Times     You can buy the book here, through my website, or Amazon.com for $8.95   A handy guide to how you, dear reader, can Purchase a Copy of Tales from the moe.Republic Options are as follows:   1)                              (seller: moerepublic)                                       2) Paypal me on my homepage: www.moerepublic.org     3) or Mail personal check or money order to me: John Derhak PO Box 2238 Jupiter, FL 33468   email me your full name, shipping address, and how many copies you're ordering at: moe.republic@gmail.com   Please add $3.00 S/H to the total on options 2 & 3   Volume Discounts Available ~All ya gotta do is ask~ 'Book' your room at the moe.Republic and pick up a copy today!!! www.moerepublic.org Email me here on myspace or at moe.republic@gmail.com for more Information or Questions

About the Book Long-time moe. fans may remember the column, which appeared in the old moe.Newsletter way back when. That column was based upon a series of letters to Rob, your friendly bass player for moe., from his brother John, the humble, yet bungling innkeeper of the moe.Republic Hotel.   brother John's Saga Continues   We're pleased to announce that brother John has finally sat his ass down and turned all those letters he wrote to Rob into a full-length book, Tales from the moe.Republic.   Now you, dear readers, can visit the mystical oasis of the moe.Republic Hotel anywhere, anytime, and read all about the adventures and misadventures of brother John when you purchase a copy of Tales from the moe.Republic, which one critic has deemed "...indespensible! A must read for every throne room in the moe.nation...!"   The Blurb Tales from the moe.Republic offers you a chance to journey into the heart of the legendary Lost Kingdom of Moose Harbor. Find out how brother John hooked Rob by the gills and reeled him in to back the hotel. Then catch up with the many characters who frequent the hotel and populate the town.   Like brother Kevin and his beloved dog Sparky who disappeared into the cosmos once upon a Saint Patrick's Day.   Meet Porter Gibson Digit and discover how this one man changed the course of history the day he invented the finger.   There's Casey McNugent, the petting zoo farmer who sells elephant semen for profit.   Throw in a haunted mansion, the misadventures of Timmy Tucker, the craziest Fourth of July party ever, a cursed pirate treasure, and you'll come to know why Rob and Al and Chuck and Vinnie and Jim have spent the better part of last fifteen years on the road and avoiding this place like the plague. Email me here on myspace or at moe.republic@gmail.com for more Information or Questions   Also visit me on the web:      ~Full Cover~

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Excerpts from the book: Tales from the moe.Republic © 2006 John Derhak Bullwinkle Lodge and Cabins Upper Bean's Point on Moose Harbor Somewhere in the Lost Kingdom Tuesday, 9:17 p.m. Dear Rob, Father always said it would come to this. Not that I'd end up a basket case, but that my days of wandering would eventually come to an end. "Sooner or later even the last tumbleweed rolls no more, boy," he'd tell me. "One day it bounces into town, the next day the wind dies down, and that old weed takes to root and rolls no more. That's just how it goes." I've heard that more than once over the years. And I heard it again last week when the two of us took to the road with a fistful of cigars and a battered road map to guide us. Me and the prairie dog's Confucius, cruising in a '58 Rambler, in search of prize real estate for our hotel-country inn project. We've been on the move, too, making time--up and down the coast, over the mountains, along winding roads, and across the plains. A host of carnies and hucksters posing as real estate agents have paraded us through ramshackle dumps, pretentious palaces, and desolate swamplands. Too much driving, really, in such little time. I was set to cave when father received a tip on a happening spot up the Maine coast. A trucker filled him in at a rest stop. The guy had a payload of wood flour, which got the best of father's curiosity. "Wood flour?" father asked. "For what?" "It's a filler," he replied, except 'filler' sounded closer to 'phillah.' "For toilet seats and doughnuts. We got both ends of the market covered!" He smiled and gave a shrug. "Think of it as sifted gold!" It was pretty much all he had to say. Father being the consummate businessman, they struck up a conversation. The next thing I knew we were off to the low mountains on the eastern frontier, a place the trucker called the Lost Kingdom. I was spent and in no mood to drive for hours into the wilderness. "Just a little farther, boy," father pushed me on, "and the tumbleweed rolls no more." He chuckled at his own wit. Up and down rugged hills we traversed. On and on, climbing higher and higher past windswept terrain. We nearly drove the Rambler into the ground on that last mountain pass. The valves were tapping Morse code. Father was cursing and swearing like he had hives. At me, the car, or the trucker? I did not ask and did not want to know. Once we cleared the pass I could see the ocean. I threw the beast in neutral to cool her down, thinking it would be a good thing to coast. Which it was until we hit G-force resistance about a third of the way down the mountainside. I'm not sure if it was the brakes that were smoking on that final turn or if it was father's death grip on his St. Christopher's medal. I have to admit that I was relieved when we rolled into this secluded town. The big, old road sign read: "Welcome to Downeast Way-the Last Sanctuary and Hope for Western Civilization and Your Investment Dollar." It's been one heck of a road trip, but I think it was worth it. I think we've finally found the perfect spread. Our harrowing journey and everlasting search hath ended...

Mary Magdalene—"For Christ's sake could you set the record straight?"

The Bride of Frankenstein—"He made you scream. We know that much. But just how big was that monster?"

Thomas Paine—"I gotta level with you, Tom, 'These are the times that try men's souls.'"