My encounter with David Sedaris
When I found out that Mr. Sedaris was touring to my beloved city, I immediately started to plot how I was going to attain tickets. My scheme was to email him a story of how much I hate his work, and going to see him would be his last shot at getting my vote for the Pulitzer prize. My letter would be written on White House letterhead, all in 1980's MLA format so he could appreciate me as a historian. So what if MLA format is still around in the standard of writing in small, anti-social circles. The body of my work will shine through the auto formatting, sending Mr. Sedaris quickly to guilt island for making me hate his work and stuffing an envelope full of backstage passes, green room accesability, signed copies of first editions, and head shots from his early press conferences. Since none of what I would write would be true, my dedicated fan-ness wouldn't allow me to tell a fib for personal gain. So instead, I chose to wait until someone special was smart enough to purchase me tickets. BLAMMO.
I prepared for the evening a few weeks in advance, reading one of his books in 5-10 increments while defecating in my home bathroom. Some people may like to bring that same book with them for public # 2 appearances, but I chose to take my time and read in the comfort of my personal surroundings. My own lighting, vent on or off option, early jazz Pandora station to help get things going, the bid war winner for best in toilet paper, and my freedom to excrete noises without the use of a "camo-cough." Students should consider this as a serious studying environment, being that the couch is too comfortable and the library is simply not comfortable enough. This meets all needs in the middle, sort of like bringing your own mug to coffee shops to reduce waste, only that location is a Starbucks.
In my quest to dazzle Mr. Sedaris on his evening spent with Milwaukee, I was told to watch his appearances on YouTube to hear how he sounds. Evidently his voice is so moving that most readers of his imagine him reading his essays aloud in the sanctity of their own homes. I gave it a shot, watching his visits to David Letterman and other talk shows. His humor is so funny on paper, but has a different effect when you hear him talk. His voice is very high pitched, giving innocence to his essays. What's fascinating about this combination of words and voice is that they don't match, but make sense in a opposites attract equation. His creative ways of describing feces and all around stupid Americans is accompanied beautifully by the voice of a 12-year-old girl during her public speaking final.
His delivery is equally important, pausing at the right moments in his readings and accentuating his punchlines with full force. This is followed by an uproar of uncontrollable laughter and sea otter clapping. His non-reaction to his own humor only adds to his character, as if he puts his genius on hold during shows to stall any kind of Tourettes-like incidence. It's as if he's reading to a group of owls, never fearing a glitch because his only crowd reaction is blinking. Never fumbling words, he enunciates with non-regional diction, reminding me that "Anchorman" is an incredible movie. Hey, I get sidetracked just as much as the next guy, and if I want to tell you that "Anchorman" is top notch flick, I'm going to do so.
We arrived at the venue (after going to the wrong place purely due to laziness in checking the tickets) and walked in with a breath of fresh air. The crowd was as expected: old ex-hippies that love non-fiction, unproductive cubicle droids who get paid to watch him read "Stadium Pal" on the Internet, boyfriends that were dragged by their girlfriends and go directly to the bar, trophy wives that like him because it's "fetch", writers that enjoy his work because all they write are dog show reviews, and readers like myself that enjoy a well-written way of thinking on paper. If I had to guess, there were at least 500 people attending, all eager to forget about their bad week and laugh hysterically to the point where their assigned seat could be a potential "Me Talk Pretty One Day" reading destination.
I looked at a table crowded with drooling drones and peeked down to see a little man signing books. It was him. The man of the hour. The Dorito Grande Burrito so to speak. The king dressed in his best Benjamin Button outfit. Or maybe it was more like Betty Davis in drag. Either way, it was David Sedaris, gleaming with intelligence and wit, all packed into a child-sized body. His demeanor was sweet, wiping the slate clean with each person he met and acting like he was genuinely interested in what they were saying.
Waltzing into the theater, the air appeared to be thinner than in the lobby. I felt like a mountain hiker about to embark on an exhilarating journey into the mystic, searching for the meaning of life or an abandoned bus to die in. The feeling of freedom and relaxation overcame me, and it felt good to start removing pieces of clothing from my cold, sweat-ridden body. It seemed like a great idea at the moment, but I snapped back from my hark on the alps dreamsicle and realized that I was here to see a person read, not perform dementia-induced acts of survival tactics while in the wild.
As soon as the reading started, my heart grew fonder, as if David and I had been separated for years and have reunited like two needles in a haystack. His wit and ability to woo a crowd gave me goosebumps on my forehead. I faintly concluded that he fed off the crowd's energy like how a dj feeds off a crowded dance floor, a figure skater feeds off Olympic hopefuls, or how pigs feed off the compost from our kitchens. It gave me inspiration to make my writing more refined, more defined. A vision to run a fist hair comb through my work before submitting it into the cold, cruel world. There was so much I wanted to ask him at that very moment:
Do you write with your socks on or off?
Is it me, or are you really, REALLY funny?
What do you think of Ed Hardy cowboy boots?
Are your words inspired by semi-automatic weapons, by chance?
I must have been thinking out loud because a moment later my date asked me, "Well, why don't you just purchase his new book and ask him all those stupid questions?"
I agreed, purchased the book, and waited in the mile long line.
My anticipation was roller-coaster-child-anxiety type shit. What should I REALLY say? Is there a chance he could invite me on his long book tour for sound advice for his wardrobe decisions? Would his partner Hugh be jealous? Is my fly open? Oh, damn! I was next!
The man in front of me was telling Mr. Sedaris jokes, and he seemed to be amused by the gangly looking monster. Their conversation was adventurous, enough for me to envy the man's banality. If I were to dumb down my excessive inappropriate thoughts on, well, just about everything, could I have the same intense conversation with a legend?
I approached the table, my little sheet filled out with who I wanted the book made out to. I courageously asked if he ever toured in Den Haag, Netherlands, where my sister and family currently live. He responded, "Well yes, but not in the Haag. It was in another part of the Netherlands. It's called Mocht" (not sure if the spelling is correct, but he pronounced it where it was like he was saying "mocked" along with a hacking-your-tonsils-out kinda of sound).
I replied, "Oh. Really? That's cool."
"Do you know where that is?" he asked.
David Sedaris was asking ME a question. I replied, "Uh, no, but it sounds cool."
Never short on words, but at this time, I was being a complete idiot. Filled to the brim with more banality than the guy in front of me could ever imagine.
He said, Oh, that's too bad. Nice to meet you."
"Yes, yes! Thank you. Love your work."
I walked away, ashamed of my starstruck attack and how painfully embarrassing that meeting was. My biggest words to the man of many words were "cool" and "cool." I hesitated and stumbled like a high school student mathematician that accidentally walked into the girl's locker room. It was as successful if I were talking to a kindergarten teacher who understands the language of young children without motor skills. Other than that, I failed with furious vengeance.
I wanted to shine in front of someone that I consider the duke of sarcasm but came up short. The next time we meet I will come up with the best joke he's ever heard, know every city in the Netherlands AND Ireland (just in case it comes up), and give him a full description of what i think he should write about.
I'll tell you one thing though: He was not bedazzled by me. But, in due time, I'll dazzle the shit out of him.
