As I am not a zombologist (his term), I couldn't appreciate that he spent almost 20 minutes talking about the survival guide. But, if I were Max Brooks, I would very much appreciate David Sedaris for going on the road to promote the book. I know so very little about the writing world that I don't know what the connection is (if there is one) between Sedaris and Brooks, but perhaps it has something to do with their publisher, or it has something to do with... oh never mind -- I don't know where I'm going with this.
The second book is a collection of short stories which he chose, and though I never bought nor read it, I had to admit the title was quite intriguing.
David Sedaris began with a disclaimer about some of the "untruths" in his essays (actually he said there were only two). He very wittily flirted with the fine line betweent truths and lies, and the disclaimer lengthened into a long essay about how every single word in his essays is true, except for two instances. The first instance was when he misquoted his mother, and thanks to a neighbor of his who happened to be testing out his new tape recorder at that time, the conversation in question was replayed and the accurate wording was noted. Unfortunately, the book had already been published and it was too late to edit each of the books in print.
The second untruth/lie became reality when the cashier he falsely named Brenda in his essay changed her name to Brenda (was it really Brenda? I can't remember clearly... perhaps I should have had a tape recorder with me).
The second essay was "April in Paris", mainly about his obsession with a spider named April, who lived on the tenement-window in his home in Normandy. Sedaris regaled us with the stories of him catching flies to feed his arachnid tenants, and told us how he carried April to Paris and showed her the Eiffel Tower as they drove past.
The third piece for the evening was an essay he had published in the New Yorker, and though I didn't catch the title of the piece, it doesn't really matter b/c he said the New Yorker used a different title anyway when they published the essay. It begins with him waking up in desperate need for coffee but the water has been shut off (w/o prior notice as is the custom in Normandy). It (very swiftly and smoothly) segueways into a contemplation about and a questioning of traditional gender roles, with the typical Sedarian humor slicing into bending gender roles. There is one unforgettalbe image (an imagined one at that) of Hugh washing clothes by the riverbank, beating the clothes on the rock, with a baby hanging onto his breast, by the gums. You'll never guess where he got the water to make the coffee (and no, he did not use green tea like he did previously).
The last piece he read was not a complete essay because he read excerpts of his journal entries from his 3 month stay in Japan. I must admit that while some of his material was funny, I felt that his entries exhibited an un-Sedarian (or perhaps late Sedaris vs. early Sedaris style) kind of humor that bordered on racist and was very clearly Orientalist. It was an uncomfortable feeling for me, especially since the only statement that noted his consciousness of being orientalist was the statement he made almost halfway through the piece. He was in the process of making fun of some of the English that he saw while living in Japan, and before launching into his story, he said in an aside that he understood the irony of his statement given that he did not know Japanese (and, I might add, was a rich, white, gay man living in Japan). Besides that statement, there was nothing else except his very skewed depictions of Japan and the Japanese people -- it was sort of disappointing to hear (and it's not just because he was writing about Asians), and uncomfortable. It was even more uncomfortable that the audience was pealing in laughter. They lapped it up without blinking an eye.
Despite my growing disenchantment with Sedaris, I was still star-struck and managed to be the 5th person in line to get his autograph. Given my objections to his To Do list which he gave me previously, I asked for another list, which he promptly wrote down:
- 1. Eat a big sandwich
2. Buy sandals
3. Watch a Japanese movie
After handing me the book, he asked if I've seen the movie Hanabi -- and I can't remember the director that he mentioned so I don't know which Hanabi he was talking about. I'll just have to watch them all. So, in the end, despite the fact that I found a large part of his reading objectionable (much of it was very crass, for my taste), I was still enamored with him, so much so that I couldn't find anything intelligent to say when he suggested that I eat a big sandwich. I mean, what does it mean to eat a big sandwich? A poet would have been more precise and said what kind of sandwhich instead of something generic like "sandwich." An avocado brussel sprouts on dark rye is very different from a salami on Dutch crunch. A spicy falafel sandwich roll is very different from a tuna salad sandwich on french baquette.
Somehow, I don't think he meant any of this figuratively. David Sedaris really did tell me to eat a big sandwich. Is that what my life is about? I have so little meaningful conversation with good writers that I'm reduced a pittering, puttering mess when I face someone like Sedaris and then I don't even have the guts to take him to task for displaying so proudly his Orientalismm. Not even to ask him to modify his list. Sigh.
That's it folks. The evening was had. The fun is gone. Back to work. Put on your corduroy and denim and get to work...
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