Yer Trash

Sheer terror.  

As I exited Roosevelt University's Audtorium Theater, I was overcome with the fear that I wouldn't remember every comedy nugget from my evening with David Sedaris, of which there were a boatload.  I suppose I should point out that it was our evening with Mr. Sedaris.  I bought the tickets months ago, technically as a Christmas present for Marky, but it was a semi-selfish gift knowing I'd be his date.  How I adore stepping into a historic venue, complete with gold leaf and frescoes, nestling into a springy chair that lets me sit upright, placing my jacket below it, confident that my garment is in no danger of Mr. Pibb or nacho cheese stains.  Before any show begins, I tend to rate the audience, for they are equally, if not more responsible for my evening's enjoyment.  Hundreds of iPhones went black as the opening speaker received hoots and hollers for mentioning NPR.  This was an A+ group.

The theater nerd that I am, I couldn't shake the feeling that the tall guy sitting in front of me would tarnish my view of the stage.  When the diminutive, buttoned-up Sedaris took to the podium, I silently laughed at myself for worrying about missing a performance move.  He wasn't going anywhere, and we were there to listen.  And laugh.  It's been awhile since my head flew back and I cackled about fatty tumors, Irish setters having sex, or a reheaded "Crazy Mutha Focka" with corn rows.  For those of you (if you're reading this, how could you let me down like this) who haven't cracked open a piece of David Sedaris literature, yes, some of the humor is surprisingly lowbrow.  Lowbrow, modern, liberal humor, tied up with a carnation pink Windsor knot.  

The fact that David Sedaris can so harshly judge an altruistic Holiday Inn clerk for having a messy car, then 15 minutes later admit he did a charity gig for some "fucked up kids," is so human, and real, I just want to squeeze him.  His story about the crochety neighbor in When You Are Engulfed In Flames is one such instance of contradiction.  He simultaneously hates and loves this shitty neighbor, and as a reader, I came close to tears from laughter and sadness over the course of 5 pages.  

Mr. Sedaris read to us a selection of essays, diary entries, and stories from his yet unreleased Bestiary.  The philosophical views of lab rats, the ennui of married dog life, and an in-depth look at air travel from security checkpoint to complimentary beverage - just a few of the subjects he masterfully narrated to a loving audience.  He wrapped up the evening with a brief Q&A, and recommending a book, Tim Johnston's Irish Girl, which I can't wait to be creeped out by.  

We topped off the evening with fancy coffees and sandwiches at the Artist's Cafe.  The respectable, bejeweled, public radio-listening patrons in the cafe had also been at the show.  With their indoor voices, none of the conversations included the phrase "Crazy Mutha Focka," but just like us, I know they were all thinking it.