David Sedaris’ latest will once again inflame readers’ passions

‘SEDARISIAN’ ISSUES: In his newest, Sedaris tackles predicaments like, “When stuck next to a sobbing passenger on an international flight, do you pity him, resent him, or ask the flight attendant for a second ice cream sundae with caramel?” - Anne Fishbein

One of the first writers to emphasize the “fun” aspect of dysfunctional families, David Sedaris has become the unlikeliest of beloved American spinners of tall tales. Unlike most who have followed in his footsteps, Sedaris has emerged relatively unscathed from the fallout of Oprah’s chewing James Frey a new orifice over “A Million Little Pieces.”

Who can say why this is so? Do Sedaris’ essays come with subliminal instructions not to go after him? Or perhaps his readers and listeners are intelligent enough to recognize the inherent exaggeration lurking within his darkly hilarious prose.

Whatever the reason, it goes without saying that “When You Are Engulfed in Flames” — Sedaris’ first essay collection since 2004 — will become an instant bestseller.

Why? Because David Sedaris is one of the world’s funniest essayists, with a trenchant knack for zeroing in on the most awkward moments of social interaction, plus other assorted transgressions.

For instance, most people barely exchange any words with taxicab drivers, but not Sedaris. No, he manages to get into heated arguments with two different people chauffeuring him around. Another time, in his distant youth, he hitched a lift from a tow-truck driver whose small-talk abruptly segues into, “All I know is that if anyone wanted to give me a blow job, or have me give him one, I’d do it.”

Heck, he even manages to get into a fight with the contentious woman sitting next to him on a plane when he refuses to switch seats with her husband, seated some distance away. What to do, then, when he accidentally sneezes a cough drop onto the crotch of her jeans while she’s sleeping?

Any of the above examples amply demonstrate Sedaris’ remarkable ability to take readers to that supremely awkward moment we’ve all been in at one time or another, and to get us to laugh uproariously because it isn’t one of us in that predicament. No matter how many times he does this, it never gets old.

“When You Are Engulfed in Flames,” by David Sedaris. (Little, Brown & Company, June, 2008). 336 pp., $25.99.

And of course, there are plenty of the expected eccentricities that long-term readers will savor. These include his confession that “I still feel best — more true to myself — when dressed like a hobo”; shopping for his boyfriend Hugh’s Christmas present: a human skeleton complete with hinged skull; befriending the spiders that infest his Normandy home to the point where he captures flies for his favorite arachnid; worrying which of his siblings will get the one belonging of their parents that they all cherish; celebrating the exasperating life of Helen, an abrasive upstairs neighbor of his; flipping through a ’70s bestiality porn mag with his sister Amy; and covering the windows of his chateau with record album covers to scare off the demented birds trying to buffet their way in.

While most of these essays have appeared elsewhere already (chiefly “The New Yorker”), the 83-page finale, “The Smoking Section,” is new and easily worth the cover price.

Having given up both drugs and alcohol already, Sedaris sets his sights on his final vice: smoking. And where else would one want to give up this habit but in Tokyo, a famously smoker-friendly city?

What follows is classic Sedaris: part travelogue, marveling at the cleanliness of his surroundings and the politeness of those around him; part riff on the “Engarish” — mangled English — all around him; part self-flagellation as he subjects himself to the stresses of Japanese language course; and part remembrance of simpler days, when “smoking didn’t always mean something …. a detail, but not a telling one.”

While much of his subject matter may be familiar to veteran readers, Sedaris puts enough of a spin on them so that he doesn’t seem stuck in a rut. In no small part to his success, the formerly shambolic ne’er-do-well has gradually cleaned up his act, becoming — gasp! — respectable despite himself. “I wish I could do my penitence with grace, but I doubt that will happen any time soon,” he admits.

Let’s hope not.�

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IN FOCUS — WILD AND RAUNCHY

Thirtysomething photographer Slava Mogutin left Siberia for the U.S. in the mid-’90s: right when Mayor Giuliani was cleaning up Manhattan. Not only was Mogutin’s photography already getting attention in the Soviet Union, he was the first Russian granted asylum on the grounds of homophobic persecution.

His new book “Love Is Not for Sale,” (powerHouse, $35) is like a backstage pass during New York’s golden age — before the downtown gay scene got cleaned up.

Mogutin’s lens captures the gritty milieu of thuggy bois, muscle-bound hustlers and the physically talented shaking their groove hangs for G-string moolah. The images are colorful, dark, skanky and hilarious — like the bar patron mouth-tipping a go-go dancer’s penis.

Mogutin depicts the late-night fun gay men enjoy … when they know tomorrow’s hangover will be brutal.



This article appeared in the Dallas Voice print edition June 13, 2008.