An Evening with David Sedaris

When I learned David Sedaris was coming to Princeton, my first thought was “How do I get free tickets?” Failing to accomplish that, I settled for my second thought, “How much do tickets cost?” The answer was $15, the price of a movie ticket plus butter-flavored popcorn. Very reasonable, I thought. How often would I get a chance to see someone who had been published in the New Yorker? Yes, I could go over to John McPhee’s house—he lives in Princeton—and peer through his windows, but both Mr. McPhee and the New Jersey police might object.

So I got my ticket. Cheapness always has a downside, which, in this case, came in the phrase “Standing Room Only.” But, I rationalized, do I really need a seat? Standing is an excellent way to burn calories. It keeps you from dozing off during the performance. It’s easier and less obtrusive if you need to leave to use the bathroom. Finally, there is a significantly lower chance of being called on during “audience participation” segments. The performers like to pick on the big spenders sitting in the front row, not the poverty-stricken grad students in back.

The performance began at 8. I arrived at 7:50 and immediately fell victim to class envy. The wardrobe of a grad student—OK, my wardrobe—has two settings: “Slobbish” and “Overdressed.” Not wanting to show up in a blazer and slacks, I opted instead for a T-shirt and shorts. It was my nicest t-shirt, a little black number with a purple-and-yellow stripe across the chest. I only break it out for classy engagements. As you might guess, it paled next to the casual-but-nice clothes worn by everybody else.

Speaking of “everybody else”…they skewed older than you might expect. Not that they came with canes and walkers, but the average age seemed somewhere in the thirties, with plenty of gray hair in evidence. Then I remembered that Sedaris himself is 53. I had always thought of him perfectly preserved at age 25, as so many of his stories take place in his college and post-college years. But no: not even the author of “Santaland Diaries” is immune to aging.

An usher was showing people to their seats, though, obviously, I had no need for such a service. The world was my seat. I wasn’t like those bourgeois bluehairs with their fancy clothes and narrow minds. No, I was a rebel, a free spirit who stood wherever there was room to stand. At least that’s what I told myself whenever I felt my knees begin to buckle. No! Can’t collapse! Must keep standing to make a statement for free-spiritedness!

I don’t want to reveal anything about the performance itself. David Sedaris might sue. Therefore, I have heavily censored the next few paragraphs:

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX severed heads XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX warblers XXX XXXXXXXXX Elaine Stritch XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX gas chamber XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX vigilantism XXXX attempted rape XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX ice pick XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX murder XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX crumbled ham dummy XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX burqini XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX ripped his lungs out XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX airplanes XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX unicorn XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX the end XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Such was David Sedaris. A good time was had by all, me especially.