t’s like printed, bound, and library-shelved blogging.
David Sedaris tells the story of his life in four- or five-page vignettes that had me chuckling. Of how he was sentenced to speech therapy as a child, therapy that was forced down the lisping throats of all the budding homosexuals his elementary school had to offer. Of how his father was suddenly consumed with a the idea of a Von Trapp-style family jazz band, and so subjected his son to guitar lessons with a midget. Of deciding that he wanted to go to France, not because he felt any sort of affinity for the French, but because he felt like it would be an adventure in helplessness, and so set about winning the heart of a young man he happened to know who happened to have a small cottage in Normandy. Of how he then refused to learn any of the language except the most obscure, useless nouns.
I loved it. Eight caterpillars.