Liars and Saints

  David Sedaris is not my number-one writer, but I respect his work. I also feel like I'm meeting myself on the page: -Sedaris and I are both obsessed with the mid-century American novelist Richard Yates. -Sedaris thinks that today's children are crippled by parental narcissism and hand-wringing. ("Today, a child 'graduates' fifteen times before twelfth grade....") Just this weekend, I was complaining to my spouse about my child's absurd pre-K "graduation"; my spouse did not empathize. -When Bergoglio summoned several comics to the Vatican, Sedaris tried to imagine the reason for the invitation. His thoughts traveled the particular route that I'm sure my own thoughts would take. ("Could you lay off the jokes about pedophilia? Please. Pretty please. Remember a simpler time, when all the jokes were just about horny nuns....?" Sedaris also includes a memorable joke. A cop approaches a group of Jesuits and says, "Can you help me ou...

  In my favorite film, "Rear Window," James Stewart becomes convinced that his neighbor has committed a murder. Stewart observes--like a filmgoer--as his neighbor does strange, wordless things. Stewart is watching a silent film, trying to make inferences, considering possible interventions. I have admired my neighbor for years. He speaks a mile a minute, and his brain is teeming with conspiracy theories. He believes that he bought his house from the children of Nazis; he says these emigres hid in the house, and never left, for many decades. The children buried their Nazi parents in the backyard--and, when my neighbor enlisted the help of gardening experts too quickly, chaos ensued. My neighbor thinks that the couple on Walton gets off on privately torturing dogs. He thinks that the owners of the local pub secretly hate children--and they express themselves by spitting in certain bowls of soup. Also, in his particular vision, our local Fourth of July is a seething cauldron of ...

Here is the start of an amazing story, "Me Talk Pretty One Day": At the age of forty-one, I am returning to school and having to think of myself as what my French textbook calls "a true debutant." After paying my tuition, I was issued a student ID, which allows me a discounted entry fee at movie theaters, puppet shows, and Festyland, a far-flung amusement park that advertises with billboards picturing a cartoon stegosaurus sitting in a canoe and eating what appears to be a ham sandwich. Sedaris thinks about the rhythm of his sentences. The punchline--"debutant," "ham sandwich"--is at the very end. But here's the thing that is really special about him. Most people would write a cute "culture clash" essay about France: "Look, Paris is really crazy!" But Sedaris understands that he has a real opportunity to write about something much more interesting, i.e., social anxiety: I remind myself that I am now a full-grown man. No on...

  *"Murder at the Vicarage," by Agatha Christie. People say Christie, at her best, was able to write lifelike characters, and "Vicarage" is cited as an example. I do like Christie's sense of humor in this book. A middle-aged vicar lives with his flighty spouse, Griselda, who can't take an interest in keeping house. "It seems like when I really try, the meals are actually worse than when I'm just phoning it in." When a murder occurs, the men of the town lose their cool, and it's elderly Miss Marple who says, "Everyone has terrible secrets. Human nature is far darker, far more frightening, than you're willing to admit." I also admire Madame Lestrange, who hates having visitors; she just sits in her living room, with the lights out, until the doorbell stops ringing. *"Yoko," by Rosemary Wells. One wonderful trick in a Wells book is a quiet way of pointing out how adults can be wrong. Yoko's classmates mock her sus...

  David Sedaris doesn't care whether we like him -- and this sense of indifference is his superpower. Sedaris is repelled by certain pandemic-era behaviors. If you use the word "heroes," "hunker-down," "new normal," then you're disinvited from a Sedaris dinner party. Also, Sedaris thinks it's absurd that people are angry that Ellen DeGeneres lives in a mansion. Do you know who bought that mansion? You did, when you supported "Finding Nemo." Bluntly, Sedaris recalls visiting a white movie star many years ago. A Black woman was dishing out the meal. "You make her work so late?" asked Sedaris. And the movie star said, "She's not my employee. She's my wife." This level of honesty is impressive to me. It's more impressive than Anna Kendrick appearing on "Colbert," announcing that she spent the weekend watching the documentary "13th," so she could educate herself. Finally, and boldly, Seda...

  David Sedaris once wrote an essay called "Peach Pearapy," and it was about how his elementary school leaders wanted to reform his speaking. The therapy was really a coded effort to make David sound "less gay." Of course, the therapy didn't work, and the humor of the story comes from all the bells and whistles surrounding a basically useless endeavor. I think of this, sometimes, as I drive my child to speech therapy. The work involves a notebook; I am to ingest helpful suggestions at the end of each session, then I'm to practice with Josh in the living room and jot down my observations. Encourage imaginative play with puppets. Use a "fence" with your child, so he can really focus. Have snacks available at all times, just to encourage positive non-bottle feeding experiences. Practice simple commands. Drill the body-part terms. Encourage "sensory play" with yogurt, apple sauce, lotion, Play-Doh, shampoo. Get out the flashcards. I'm pre...

 It's said that a great way to meet people is to get a dog. Salvy has expanded our network in substantial ways. One of my favorite new encounters is with our dog-loving neighbors, who cuddle with Salvy while telling me lurid stories. "Salvy is the best," says Margaret, as she reaches for a pita chip. "Oh, did I tell you what happened with a blackbird in my lawn? I was brushing my teeth, and I looked out, and I saw a bird grab a rabbit in its talons. My dads didn't believe me, but then we all walked out and saw the rabbit entrails on the roof of our shed." "We love Salvy," says Margaret's father. "And did I ever tell you that we bought our house from literal Nazis? That's the rumor. They fled from justice after the war. Their name was Schmidt, and once they reached Maplewood, they never, never left the space within those walls...." Salvy also had a great friend and teacher who would deliver him, via pet-taxi, to regular installment...