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David Sedaris: Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim

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David Sedaris Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim

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David Sedaris plays in the snow with his sisters. He goes on vacation with his family. He gets a job selling drinks. He attends his brother's wedding. He mops his sister's floor. He gives directions to a lost traveller. He eats a hamburger. He has his blood sugar tested. It all sounds so normal, doesn't it? In his new book David Sedaris lifts the corner of ordinary life, revealing the absurdity teeming below its surface. His world is alive with obscure desires and hidden motives a world where forgiveness is automatic and an argument can be the highest form of love. DRESS YOUR FAMILY IN CORDUROY AND DENIM finds one of the wittiest and most original writers at work today at the peak of his power. ALSO BY David Sedaris Barrel Fever Naked Holidays on Ice Me Talk Pretty One Day

David Sedaris: другие книги автора


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"Looking maybe, but notwatching," Walt said. "There's a big difference."

I asked what the difference was, but nobody answered. Then Walt made a twisting motion with his fingers, and I took my place at the table, praying for a gas leak or an electrical fire — anything to save me from the catastrophe of strip poker. To the rest of the group, a naked boy was like a lamp or a bath mat, something so familiar and uninteresting that it faded into the background, but for me it was different. A naked boy was what I desired more than anything on earth, and when you were both watching and desiring, things came up, one thing in particular that was bound to stand out and ruin your life forever. "I hate to tell you," I said, "but it's against my religion to play poker."

"Yeah, right," Walt said. "What are you, Baptist?"

"Greek Orthodox."

"Well, that's a load of crap because the Greeks invented cards," Walt said.

"Actually, I think it was the Egyptians." This from Scott, who was quickly identifying himself as the smart one.

"Greeks, Egyptians, they're all the same thing," Walt said. "Anyway, what your pooh-bah doesn't know won't hurt him, so shut the hell up and play."

He dealt the cards, and I looked from face to face, exaggerating flaws and reminding myself that these boys did not like me. The hope was that I might crush any surviving atom of attraction, but as has been the case for my entire life, the more someone dislikes me the more attractive he becomes. The key was to stall, to argue every hand until the sun came up and Mrs. Winters saved me with whatever cheerful monstrosity she'd planned for breakfast.

On the off chance that stalling wouldnot work, I stepped into the bathroom and checked to make sure I was wearing clean underwear. A boner would be horrible beyond belief, but a boner combined with a skid mark meant that I should take the ketchup-smeared knife and just kill myself before it was too late.

"What are you, launching a sub in there?" Walt shouted. "Come on, we're waiting."

Usually when I was forced to compete, it was my tactic to simply give up. To try in any way was to announce your ambition, which only made you more vulnerable. The person who wanted to win but failed was a loser, while the person who didn't really care was just a weirdo — a title I had learned to live with. Here, though, surrender was not an option. I had to win at a game I knew nothing about, and that seemed hopeless until I realized we were all on an equal footing. Not even Scott had the slightest idea what he was doing, and by feigning an air of expertise, I found I could manipulate things in my favor.

"A joker and a queen is much better than the four and five of spades," I said, defending my hand against Brad Clancy's.

"But you have a joker and a three of diamonds."

"Yes, but the jokermakes it a queen."

"I thought you said that poker was against your religion," Walt said.

"Well, that doesn't mean I don't understand it. Greeksinvented cards, remember. They're in my blood."

At the start of the game, the starburst clock had read three-thirty. An hour later I was missing one shoe, Scott and Brad had lost their shirts, and both Walt and Dale were down to their underwear. If this was what winning felt like, I wondered why I hadn't tried it before. Confidently in the lead, I invented little reasons for the undressed to get up and move about the room.

"Hey, Walt, did you hear that? It sounded like footsteps up in the kitchen."

"I didn't hear anything."

"Why don't you go to the stairway and check. We don't want any surprises." His underwear was all bunchy in the back, saggy like a diaper, but his legs were meaty and satisfying to look at.

"Dale, would you make sure those curtains are closed?"

He crossed the room, and I ate him alive with my eyes, confident that no one would accuse me of staring. Things might have been different were I in last place, but as a winner, it was my right to make sure that things were done properly. "There's an open space down by the baseboard. Bend over and close it, will you?"

It took a while, but after explaining that a pair of kings was no match for a two of hearts and a three of spades, Walt surrendered his underpants and tossed them onto a pile beside the TV set. "Okay," he said. "Now the rest of you can finish the game."

"But itis finished," Scott said.

"Oh no," Walt said. "I'm not the only one getting naked. You guys have to keep playing."

"While you do what — sit back andwatch? " I said. "What kind of a homo are you?"

"Yeah," Dale said. "Why don't we do something else? This game's boring and the rules are impossible."

The others muttered in agreement, and when Walt refused to back down, I gathered the deck and tamped it commandingly upon the tabletop. "The only solution is for usall to keep playing."

"How the hell do you expect me to do that?" Walt said. "In case you haven't noticed, there's nothing more for me to lose."

"Oh," I said, "there's always more. Maybe if the weakest hand is already naked, we should make that person perform some kind of a task. Nothing big, just, you know, a token kind of a thing."

"A thing like what?" Walt asked.

"I don't know. I guess we'll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it."


In retrospect, I probably went a little too far in ordering Scott to sit on my lap. "But I'm naked!" he said.

"Hey," I told him, "I'm the one who's going to be suffering. I was just looking for something easy. Would you rather run outside and touch the mailbox? The sun will be coming up in about twenty seconds — you want the whole neighborhood to see you?"

"How long will I have to sit on you?" he asked.

"I don't know. A minute or two. Maybe five. Or seven."

I moved onto the easy chair and wearily patted my knee, as if this were a great sacrifice. Scott slid into place, and I considered our reflection in the darkened TV screen. Here I was, one naked guy on my lap and three others ready to do my bidding. It was the stuff of dreams until I remembered that they were not doing these things of their own accord. This was not their pleasure, but their punishment, and once it was over they would make it a point to avoid me. Rumors would spread that I had slipped something into their Cokes, that I had tried to French Brad Clancy, that I had stolen five dollars from Walt's pocket. Not even Mrs. Winters would wave at me, but all that would come later, in a different life. For now I would savor this poor imitation of tenderness, mapping Scott's shoulders, the small of his back, as he shuddered beneath my winning hand.


Consider the Stars

EVERY NIGHT before going to bed, Hugh steps outside to consider the stars. His interest is not scientific — he doesn't pinpoint the constellations or make casual references to Canopus; rather, he just regards the mass of them, occasionally pausing to sigh. When asked if there's life on other planets, he says, "Yes, of course. Look at the odds."

It hardly seems fair we'd get the universe all to ourselves, but on a personal level I'm highly disturbed by the thought of extraterrestrial life. If there are, in fact, billions of other civilizations, where does that leave our celebrities? If worth is measured on a sliding scale of recognition, what would it mean if we were all suddenly obscure? How would we know our place?


In trying to make sense of this, I think back to a 1968 Labor Day celebration at the Raleigh Country Club. I was at the snack bar, listening to a group of sixth-graders who lived in another part of town and sat discussing significant changes in their upcoming school year. According to the girl named Janet, neither Pam Dobbins nor J. J. Jackson had been invited to the Fourth of July party hosted by the Duffy twins, who later told Kath Matthews that both Pamand J.J. were out of the picture as far as the seventh grade was concerned. "Totally, completely out," Janet said. "Poof."

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