Don't Sleep With A Bubba: Unless Your Eggs Are In Wheelchairs. Susan Reinhardt
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He pulled his arms in like a kangaroo’s and smirked, that trademark grin, a smile without teeth.
He decided against the spa and planned to get to his Malaprop’s gig two hours early. He knew the crowds would be thick; his performances sell out and the multitudes would run into the hundreds and thousands. That’s a lot of books to sign. And he’ll stay hours—sometimes until early morning—until every book is autographed. He’s that nice of a guy, and I was surprised he was so low-key and quiet one-on-one, as opposed to his typical effervescent audience performances.
He even enjoys the book tours, something other authors dread but know comes with the territory. The airplane rides, the hotel stays, lack of sleep, countless media interviews—it’s exhausting, yet Sedaris seems to thrive on the pace.
Typically, he converses with everyone who has come to see him, and has something witty to say or write in their books. The only thing that seems to irk him is the age-old question that haunts most humor writers—“Is this stuff for real? How much is exaggerated?”
That’s like asking David Copperfield to reveal the secrets to his disappearing acts. He won’t do it. Another drawback to fame and writing about his family is that Sedaris had no idea people would decide they knew them personally. It never occurred to him, either, that he’d become so popular—gaining in notoriety and building a bigger following with each book.
The fame has rather stunned him. He figured people know him through his National Public Radio readings, but recently, in Toronto, where there’s no NPR, six hundred fans showed up at a bookstore.
By this point in our interview I’d given up talking about the Goodwill and fiery pubic mounds and asked him to reveal the secrets of his successful book signings.
“I had only eleven people come to mine in Charlotte,” I said, “and nine were relatives.”
What he usually does during these touring events is read stories for twenty-five minutes. “After that I run my mouth,” he said, “and answer questions.” His new way of signing is to draw a stick of dynamite and write “TNT” within the sphere, and then “You’re Dynamite” on the book’s page.
It was time for our interview to end and him to prepare for this evening. I shook his hand, wanting a hug, but knowing better. He accepted a copy of my book and said he looked forward to reading it. I doubted he ever would. But that’s OK.
Later that night, amid the huge crowd bursting to get in the doors at Malaprop’s, many pressing eager faces against the outside windows hoping for but a glimpse, Sedaris worked the room as a waiter might take drink orders.
He gets as many books signed this way as possible—to avoid dragging back to his hotel at 3 AM and keeping bookstore employees up into the wee hours.
Because his luggage never arrived, he told the crowd he was lacking in his typical gift-bearing routine for the young people.
“I figure they’d rather be doing drugs or having sex, so I like to give them a prize for coming to a book signing,” he said.
And with that, he handed out dollar bills, shampoos and lotions from various hotels, and other trinkets. This is the Sedaris way of saying, “Thank you.”
Two days after our interview, he sent me a humorous postcard, thanking me for interviewing him. On it were two bimbos with huge tits.
“I think your new breasts look terrific,” he wrote. This means he at least read part of my book.
It’s a card I’ll save forever.
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