Meeting David Sedaris

By “meeting” I mean, “I hope to be meeting David Sedaris this Sunday when I go to his lecture in Boston.” The sweat beads are already pouring down my bleached mustache. I’ve never been to an author’s event before, so I’ve been doing some prep work and researching on how David (I decided we need to be on a first name basis if we are going to be best friends) interacts with his readers. By all appearances he seems to a nice guy, a gentleman, someone who is concerned with the well-being of his readers. He really cares. OR he is a master illusionist, like the old man in The Prestige who carried the giant fishbowl between his legs. He commits to the act. Even if that’s true, I still find myself in an utter panic trying to figure out what I’m going to wear. Would he like my gold sparkle oxfords or the zebra ones? He could find them hellacious, daring, or even delightfully tacky. Either way, it could make or break our trip to Cabo together, where we share laughs in slow motion over breezy exotic music you hear in those resort commercials.

Regardless of what I’m wearing, even if it’s evening ball gown, no amount of unique style and flare could set me apart from the crowd of adoring fans better than my nervous stammer. I would call it a stutter, but that implies that you might have some control over your life. A stammer is for hillbillies in the back woods, licking their lips as you lotion your elbows, repeating words in incoherent sentences. It’s something I can’t really help, but I’m hoping it won’t get me escorted from the premises. 

I’ll let you guys know how it goes, but I think as long as you have the news on, you’ll be able to get the gist.

3 Comments

  1. Years ago, I had a chance to meet T.R. Pearson, who probably tops my lists of favorite authors. He was signing books at my local bookstore, and I didn’t find out until my wife called and said she heard something about it on the radio. By the time I arrived, he was finished speaking and starting to wrap up signing copies of his newest book. I snatched up a copy and rushed to join the line. When I finally reached Mr. Pearson, I tried to explain to him how his novel, “A Short History of a Small Place,” was one of the funniest and most touching things I’d ever read … that if I could, I would spend the rest of my life struggling to emulate that perfect blend of storytelling and rambling nonsense … that I could only dream of creating characters that were both weird in gimmicky ways and somehow still fully-formed.

    “I like your book,” is what I actually told him. He shook my hand and said, “Thanks.”

    1. Oh gosh, well I’m glad that you managed to get something normal and kind out. I’m just reminded of the time I told the kid I liked he smelt like meatloaf, in a good way.

      1. Nothing wrong with being told you smell like meatloaf. Well, unless you meant Meatloaf…the singer. That dude probably smells like sweat, vomit and cocaine.

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