I Like David Sedaris - Don't Love him tho

There's something very refreshing about waking up at 3:00 in the morning on your day off and having a cigarette in the backyard while the dog looks for squirrels and chipmunks far too smart to be up at that hour.

I'm not a smoker, but lately I've become accustomed to gratefully finding a half pack of Players Smooth Regular Smalls in my pocket on the weekends. Or hidden in my sock drawer. Next to the long empty vial of poppers I keep around just to remind myself of a long ago time in which I was once interesting.

And that morning smoke is one of the few times I actually enjoy having a cigarette these days. As everyone else is sleeping, I have a few strong leisurely drags and feel at peace with the rest of the world - who I won't even have to deal with for a few more hours.

I got into this habit - and yes, I'm honest enough to admit it's a regular thing - last spring when the weather turned nice and the dog wanted to spend some time in the backyard. 'Fine,' I thought. I'm not one to deny any living creature their right to fresh air. Or myself the chance to see a Great Dane do an instinctive roll in the grass and then chase imaginary rabbits by running in a perfect Figure-8 routine most professional ice-skaters would kill to master.

In the beginning, I'd bring out a book. And spend most of my time watching the dog and waiting for her to do the 'happy' dance that Snoopy used to do. Then, knowing my attention-span was waning, I started bringing out a magazine. Then, realizing that nothing on the printed page could hold my interest for more than five seconds, I'd bring out my collection of the most recent grocery-store flyers. But they only come out once a week so I had to resort to dragging out the London Free Press. 'Dragging out' or 'hauling out' are misleading terms because the paper itself is awfully thin. The Saturday edition can be easily read in five minutes. And that's including the Funnies - both the colour comics and that day' black-and-whites opposite the obituaries.

But it was while perusing that useless rag one morning last spring while the sun was coming up that I came upon an unexpected name in one of the advertisments in the weekend Entertainment section. I was having my first of three morning coffees and my first and last-of-the day cigarette (by this time, I knew I was hooked - but thought 'Well, if I'm gonna be out here waiting for someone to move their bowels, I might as well be doing something productive.' Which is a far more goal-worthy aspiration than what I told my mother, when she questioned me in high-school as to whether I was smoking because I liked it or because I had succumbed to peer group pressure and just wanted to look cool. It's a disconcerting feeling when your mother uses words like 'cool.' Or 'making the scene.' Or "Oh, I suppose you're just trying to be a little Henry Winkler," she would say. Then she would ask - in the worst-ever Samuel Jackson imitation - "and everyone knows what a little Henry Winkler is, don' they?" And I'd play along and say "Cool. All us little Fonzies are cool."

Kinda lame I know - but better than my response to the teachers who chaperoned our smoking pit and asked the same questions about peer-group pressure. I'd always answer "Well YEAH! Why else would I be smoking? For the good of my health?!?" If pressured as to just when I was going to quit, Mister Smarty-Pants would respond with "What do you think I'm waiting for? Christmas?" Kinda lame, I know.

And yet almost four decades later, here I sit, counting down the hours until I will permit myself to have my next one. 23 hours away.

Anyhoo, on one of the first nice days of last spring, there I sat one late April morning, having already enjoyed the first half my cigarette and trying to convince myself that the second half would be just as much fun, when I came across a big ad in the London Free Press about a reading to be given at Centennial Hall that fall by this writer guy named David Sedaris.

I immediately ordered a handful of tickets. I'm not much of a reader. But I'd read one of his books. And I can't even claim to have discovered it myself. First-born child gave it to me. 'Naked,' it was called. Maybe it was because Mavis and I had taken up the nudist life-style now that all the kids had moved out and we'd discovered the joys of cold potato soup. Despite the off-putting title, it was a true readers' delight. Every sentence was golden. Every last sentence in a paragraph was like a punchline. It was so good that I soon began taking it out to the backyard. And actually read it while the dog was doing her thing. But I wouldn't know because my eyes barely left the printed page. And, without realizing it, I would wait until the end of the chapter before I would have a cigarette. Kinda like sex, but without the intercourse part. He's a VERY funny guy.

Tickets in hand, I took First-born child, her guest and Mavis to the show last night. I paid big bucks for ninety minutes of just listening to someone read his own words. That's pretty well unheard of in this town. Jerry Seinfeld is one thing, but Sedaris is one of those guys who writes *books.* "Why doncha just take one of his books out of the library?" was the response from most people when I told them I bougut tickets for this show. We like to pretend here in Hicksville Ohio that London, ONT is this big university town where the 'Ahhts' and Kulture are revered and respected but we ain't.

Anything to do with art or creativity is either taken for granted or spoken about in the most condescending of tones - "Ohhh you're a writer! How interesting! You know, my sister had a letter printed in the London Free Press about this problem she is having with her feet. No, they aren't bunions the doctor told her and since it had to do with these growths coming out of her big toe - and both big toes, mind you - well, I said "Sister, don't you listen to him. You go see a specialist. What you need is a feet specialist. One who specializes in the big toe. And sure enough she saw this proctologist fellow. And do you know what? After that her letter was printed in the newspaper. Well, what do you think about that?!"

But I suppose just the fact that a 'name' writer like David Sedaris would even consider coming to this town (the just-released new book and being paid upfront in cash notwithstanding,) is something. And the fact that about 800 people showed up is promising. Lord knows, they all looked like they drove down from Toronto or Drumbo, but for a change, when a big name comes to town, I didn't feel embarrassed for them.

After the show and he finished signing all those books, Dave came over. We always get together when he's on the continent, and these days, that's very rarely. Only for book tours and family funerals.

Mavis and I had met him and his partner Hughie a few years back when we were on a bus tour of Provahhanschhe over in France with Mike Todd and his wife Delores. So when Dave and the Hughmeister are on this side of the pond, the six of us like to get together for some backyard ping-pong.

And last night was no exception. Of course Michael had his banjo with him. And as he plunked out a new tune that he insisted everyone listen to, Dave and I slipped out and I had a smoke on the porch.

David was telling me about how he quit smoking. It involved moving to France and taking a very long airplane ride. In fact, he'd written an entire book about it.
I thanked him for his concern and then told him to fuck off. We both laughed, we hugged, he kissed me on the cheek and shortly afterwards far too soon he was gone.

Now, here I sit at 4:30 in the morning in the backyard, Dave's new book in my lap, hoping the dog don't wake that skunk under the shed and trying not to cry as I savour the last drags of the well-loved fag in my hand.

Five minutes later, I tossed the rest of the pack in the garbage. Again.