David Sedaris, a fruitcake worse than fruitcake

I hate David Sedaris. With a passion.

Don't get me wrong, when I first read one of his books (don't remember which one) I was reasonably amused. It made for good travel reading. But now that he's reached this superstatus of America's witty literary hipster, I've had enough.

With titles like Dress Your Family in Corderoy and Denim and Holidays on Ice and many others, Sedaris is certainly quite prolific. But I hate him. Now with Christman rolling around I am forced to suffer yet another reading on Public Radio of Sedaris' diaries as an elf working at Macy's in Manhattan. At first blush the diaries are funny. The second time they are silly. The third time they are just downright stupid.

Maybe it's sour grapes. Afterall, David Sedaris is a rich and famous writer, and I am just a hack blogger. But I suspect my distaste for all things David Sedaris is rooted in the notion that I am no longer a crystal meth addict. When I was hopped up on speedballs and hadn't slept in a week, I found Sedaris' stuff to be pure genius. But then again, when I was speeding along, I had lots of delusions about what was/wasn't genius.

Now I am sober and now I hate David Sedaris.

Oh, and by the way, if you're looking for a literary recommendation this holiday season, why not check out Agustin Burroughs instead. He's witty without being trifiling, snarky without being gratuitously bitchy and most of all (unlike David Sedaris) Agustin Burroughs is substantative and cerebral.