My favorite author wants me dead
I've never been what you'd consider to be a popular person. Throughout my life, I've lacked whatever quality that certain people have which makes them irresistable to large swaths of people; a charisma or an aura of greatness that draws people in from near and far. When I was younger, those too immature to realize their talent for popularity used it as an exclusionary measure. If you didn't stack up to whatever it was that they "had" - nothing you could actually name other than appeal - you were out of the clique, destined to befriend the orange peels and fish scales of the world (the meatier pieces having been doled out to those more worthy).
As people get older, their talent for popularity doesn't dwindle, but instead becomes more refined. Rather than use it to exclude, those truly blessed with the ability to charm find it more helpful if they include as many people as possible into their daily circles of life. Smile at the barista, wink good morning to the receptionist, or ask the bank clerk how his day is going. Endear yourself to as many people as possible; shake a hand, gain a vote. Always be smiling. Everyone thinks they're your friend, and you'd never tell them you weren't, though it is implicit to all but the most truly dense that you are but one of this charming person's coterie.
I digress from the point of my subject, being that David Sedaris, the author, wants me to die. Specifically, death by cancer of the lungs. And this is unfortunate because I realized tonight that David Sedaris is a wildly popular person, who has learned to turn his childhood of unpopularity into the ultimate underdog story. He was locked out in the snow, or perhaps he can't speak French very well, but his unflailing tenacity to turn every mundane life event into a well-worded essay has made him one of our most contemporary popular authors. An entire successful career in writing, made out of a life full of loathing. And as I stood in the hour-long line to get my copy of "Dress Your Family in Corderoy and Denim" signed, I felt popular, too. I'm part of his crowd, see? I'm one of the smart people. All the smart people like David Sedaris. He'll sign my book and I'll make a comment about my brother living in Normandy and we'll laugh. He's been doing it all night with all the other autograph seekers! He spends full minutes with each one, talking about funny things, making everyone feel special. He'll make me feel special, too. And after he goes off with the couple in front of me in line to smoke a whole cigarette with them (10 minutes with one pair of autograph seekers! Smoking their cigarettes!) it was my turn. And it was then I realized how incredibly unappealing and unpopular I really, truly am.
Our exchange went like this.
DS: "Sorry! I had to, you know, 'take some medicine' out there."
Me: "Oh! Ha ha, I completely understand..."
DS: "Do you, now, (looks at my book) Suzanne? Do you smoke?"
Me: "I...uh, well, no, I don't..."
DS: "Well why not?"
Me: "I don't know, it's not for me, I guess."
DS: "How old are you, Suzanne?"
Me: "25."
DS: "Perfect age to smoke, why haven't you tried it?"
Me: "I did try, it just wasn't for me..."
DS: "Well, was driving for you the first time you tried it?"
Me: "Uhm...well, actually yes. It was. Heh!"
DS: --stares blankly--
At this point he scribbles something in my book, I say something embarassing about my brother and Normandy that sounded a lot wittier in my head than it did when actually vocalized, and the conversation hit a silent pause more dead than a funeral parlor at closing time. I thanked him sheepishly for the autograph, shook his hand, and walked away having spent no more than 60 seconds with my favorite author...an author who previously had spent 10 minutes with a boring, ditzy couple in front of me, the female half of which sounded like Minnie Mouse on acid.
I walked out to my car before I was brave enough to read what he'd written. It wasn't much. Just a pen-and-ink drawing of a smoldering cigarette with the following autograph: "To Suzanne: START. David Sedaris."
As people get older, their talent for popularity doesn't dwindle, but instead becomes more refined. Rather than use it to exclude, those truly blessed with the ability to charm find it more helpful if they include as many people as possible into their daily circles of life. Smile at the barista, wink good morning to the receptionist, or ask the bank clerk how his day is going. Endear yourself to as many people as possible; shake a hand, gain a vote. Always be smiling. Everyone thinks they're your friend, and you'd never tell them you weren't, though it is implicit to all but the most truly dense that you are but one of this charming person's coterie.
I digress from the point of my subject, being that David Sedaris, the author, wants me to die. Specifically, death by cancer of the lungs. And this is unfortunate because I realized tonight that David Sedaris is a wildly popular person, who has learned to turn his childhood of unpopularity into the ultimate underdog story. He was locked out in the snow, or perhaps he can't speak French very well, but his unflailing tenacity to turn every mundane life event into a well-worded essay has made him one of our most contemporary popular authors. An entire successful career in writing, made out of a life full of loathing. And as I stood in the hour-long line to get my copy of "Dress Your Family in Corderoy and Denim" signed, I felt popular, too. I'm part of his crowd, see? I'm one of the smart people. All the smart people like David Sedaris. He'll sign my book and I'll make a comment about my brother living in Normandy and we'll laugh. He's been doing it all night with all the other autograph seekers! He spends full minutes with each one, talking about funny things, making everyone feel special. He'll make me feel special, too. And after he goes off with the couple in front of me in line to smoke a whole cigarette with them (10 minutes with one pair of autograph seekers! Smoking their cigarettes!) it was my turn. And it was then I realized how incredibly unappealing and unpopular I really, truly am.
Our exchange went like this.
DS: "Sorry! I had to, you know, 'take some medicine' out there."
Me: "Oh! Ha ha, I completely understand..."
DS: "Do you, now, (looks at my book) Suzanne? Do you smoke?"
Me: "I...uh, well, no, I don't..."
DS: "Well why not?"
Me: "I don't know, it's not for me, I guess."
DS: "How old are you, Suzanne?"
Me: "25."
DS: "Perfect age to smoke, why haven't you tried it?"
Me: "I did try, it just wasn't for me..."
DS: "Well, was driving for you the first time you tried it?"
Me: "Uhm...well, actually yes. It was. Heh!"
DS: --stares blankly--
At this point he scribbles something in my book, I say something embarassing about my brother and Normandy that sounded a lot wittier in my head than it did when actually vocalized, and the conversation hit a silent pause more dead than a funeral parlor at closing time. I thanked him sheepishly for the autograph, shook his hand, and walked away having spent no more than 60 seconds with my favorite author...an author who previously had spent 10 minutes with a boring, ditzy couple in front of me, the female half of which sounded like Minnie Mouse on acid.
I walked out to my car before I was brave enough to read what he'd written. It wasn't much. Just a pen-and-ink drawing of a smoldering cigarette with the following autograph: "To Suzanne: START. David Sedaris."
posted by The Semi-Pro Chef at Sunday, April 23, 2006
5 Comments:
I wanted to email David and send him this page but I couldn't find it. I did find this however, and he loves smokers.
http://www.gawker.com/topic/david-sedaris-cares-about-your-lungs-016968.php
Good boy, I'd never say that to anyone. How do I know where anyone will end up? I don't think that was very nice. As for you Meistro, we'll let David be. At the very least, I have a great story to go along with my autograph.
Authors are such degenerates!
Even degenerate ones are degenerates!
Question is, were you offended by the autograph?
(Just noticed I've been de-listed; owch!)
That's so random. I love him, but I wouldn't take his advice. I mean, really.
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