可有人有David Sedaris的文章?要英文的,不要太难的,比如有篇是描写他姐姐Amy Sedaris的,很搞笑,可俺就是找不着了

可有人有David Sedaris的文章?要英文的,不要太难的,比如有篇是描写他姐姐Amy Sedaris的,很搞笑,可俺就是找不着了
可有人有David Sedaris的文章?
要英文的,不要太难的,比如有篇是描写他姐姐Amy Sedaris的,很搞笑,可俺就是找不着了

可有人有David Sedaris的文章?要英文的,不要太难的,比如有篇是描写他姐姐Amy Sedaris的,很搞笑,可俺就是找不着了
Naked
By David Sedaris
Chapter One
chipped beef
I'm thinking of asking the servants to wax my change before placing it in the Chinese tank I keep on my dresser. It's important to have clean money--not new, but well maintained. That's one of the tenets of my church. It's not mine personally, but the one I attend with my family: the Cathedral of the Sparkling Nature. It's that immense Gothic building with the towers and bells and statues of common people poised to leap from the spires. They offer tours and there's an open house the first Sunday of every October. You should come! Just don't bring your camera, because the flash tends to spook the horses, which is a terrible threat to me and my parents, seeing as the reverend insists that we occupy the first pew. He rang us up not long ago, tipsy--he's a tippler--saying that our faces brought him closer to God. And it's true, we're terribly good-looking people. They're using my mother's profile on the new monorail token, and as for my father and me, the people at NASA want to design a lunar module based on the shape of our skulls. Our cheekbones are aeronautic and the clefts of our chins can hold up to three dozen BBs at a time. When asked, most people say that my greatest asset is my skin, which glows--it really does! I have to tie a sock over myeyes in order to fall asleep at night. Others like my eyes or my perfect, gleaming teeth, my thick head of hair or my imposing stature, but if you want my opinion, I think my most outstanding feature is my ability to accept a compliment.
Because we are so smart, my parents and I are able to see through people as if they were made of hard, clear plastic. We know what they look like naked and can see the desperate inner workings of their hearts, souls, and intestines. Someone might say, "How's it hangin', big guy," and I can smell his envy, his fumbling desire to win my good graces with a casual and inappropriate folksiness that turns my stomach with pity. How's it hanging, indeed. They know nothing about me and my way of life; and the world, you see, is filled with people like this.
Take, for example, the reverend, with his trembling hands and waxy jacket of skin. He's no more complex than one of those five-piece wooden puzzles given to idiots and school-children. He wants us to sit in the front row so we won't be a distraction to the other parishioners, who are always turning in their pews, craning their necks to admire our physical and spiritual beauty. They're enchanted by our breeding and want to see firsthand how we're coping with our tragedy. Everywhere we go, my parents and I are the center of attention. "It's them! Look, there's the son! Touch him, grab for his tie, a lock of his hair, anything!"
The reverend hoped that by delivering his sermon on horseback, he might regain a bit of attention for himself, but even with the lariat and his team of prancing Clydesdales, his plan has failed to work. At least with us seated in the front row, the congregation is finally facing forward, which is a step in the right direction. If it helps bring people closer to God, we'd be willing to perch on the pipe organ or lash ourselves to the original stainless-steel cross that hangs above the altar. We'd do just about anything because, despite our recent hardships, our first duty is to help others. The Inner City Picnic Fund, our Annual Headache Drive, the Polo Injury Wing at the local Memorial Hospital: we give unspeakable amounts to charity, but you'll never hear us talk about it. We give anonymously because the sackfuls of thank-you letters break our hearts with their clumsy handwriting and hopeless phonetic spelling. Word gets out that we're generous and good-looking, and before you know it our front gate will become a campsite for fashion editors and crippled children, who tend to ruin the grass with the pointy shanks of their crutches. No, we do what we can but with as little fanfare as possible. You won't find us waving from floats or marching alongside the Grand Pooh-bah, because that would only draw attention to ourselves. Oh, you see the hangers-on doing that sort of thing all the time, but it's cheap and foolish and one day they'll face the consequences of their folly. They're hungry for something they know nothing about, but we, we know all too well that the price of fame is the loss of privacy. Public displays of happiness only encourage the many kidnappers who prowl the leafy estates of our better neighborhoods.
When my sisters were taken, my father crumpled the ransom note and tossed it into the eternal flame that burns beside the mummified Pilgrim we keep in the dining hall of our summer home in Olfactory. We don't negotiate with criminals, because it's not in our character. Every now and then we think about my sisters and hope they're doing well, but we don't dwell upon the matter, as that only allows the kidnappers to win. My sisters are gone for the time being but, who knows, maybe they'll return someday, perhaps when they're older and have families of their own. In the meantime, I am left as the only child and heir to my parents' substantial fortune. Is it lonely? Sometimes. I've still got my mother and father and, of course, the servants, several of whom are extraordinarily clever despite their crooked teeth and lack of breeding. Why, just the other day I was in the stable with Duncan when...
"Oh, for God's sake," my mother said, tossing her wooden spoon into a cauldron of chipped-beef gravy. "Leave that goddamned cat alone before I claw you myself. It's bad enough you've got her tarted up like some two-dollar whore. Take that costume off her and turn her loose before she runs away just like the last one."
Adjusting my glasses with my one free hand, I reminded her that the last cat had been hit by a car.
"She did it on purpose," my mother said. "It was her only way out, and you drove her to it with your bullshit about eating prime rib with the Kennedys or whatever the hell it was you were yammering on about that day. Go on now, and let her loose. Then I want you to run out to the backyard and call your sisters out of that ditch. Find your father while you're at it. If he's not underneath his car, he's probably working on the septic tank. Tell them to get their asses to the table, or they'll be eating my goddamned fist for dinner."
It wasn't that we were poor. According to my parents, we were far from it, just not far enough from it to meet my needs. I wanted a home with a moat rather than a fence. In order to get a decent night's sleep, I needed an airport named in our honor.
"You're a snob," my mother would say. "That's your problem in a hard little nutshell. I grew up around people like you, and you know what? I couldn't stand them. Nobody could."
No matter what we had--the house, the cars, the vacations--it was never enough. Somewhere along the line a terrible mistake had been made. The life I'd been offered was completely unacceptable, but I never gave up hope that my real family might arrive at any moment, pressing the doorbell with their white-gloved fingers. "Oh, Lord Chisselchin," they'd cry, tossing their top hats in celebration, "thank God we've finally found you."
"It ain't going to happen," my mother said. "Believe me, if I was going to steal a baby, I would have taken one that didn't bust my ass every time I left my coat lying on the sofa. I don't know how it happened, but you're mine. If that's a big disappointment for you, just imagine what I must feel."
While my mother grocery-shopped, I would often loiter near the front of the store. It was my hope that some wealthy couple would stuff me into the trunk of their car. They might torture me for an hour or two, but after learning that I was good with an iron, surely they would remove my shackles and embrace me as one of their own.
"Any takers?" my mother would ask, wheeling her loaded grocery cart out into the parking lot.
"Don't you know any childless couples?" I'd ask. "Someone with a pool or a private jet?"
"If I did, you'd be the first one to know."
My displeasure intensified with the appearance of each new sister.
"You have how many children in your family?" the teachers would ask. "I'm guessing you must be Catholic, am I right?"
It seemed that every Christmas my mother was pregnant. The toilet was constantly filled with dirty diapers, and toddlers were forever padding into my bedroom, disturbing my seashell and wine-bottle collections.
I had no notion of the exact mechanics, but from overhearing the neighbors, I understood that our large family had something to do with my mother's lack of control. It was her fault that we couldn't afford a summerhouse with bay windows and a cliffside tennis court. Rather than improve her social standing, she chose to spit out children, each one filthier than the last.
It wasn't until she announced her sixth pregnancy that I grasped the complexity of the situation. I caught her in the bedroom, crying in the middle of the afternoon.
"Are you sad because you haven't vacuumed the basement yet?" I asked. "I can do that for you if you want."
"I know you can," she said. "And I appreciate your offer. No, I'm sad because, shit, because I'm going to have a baby, but this is the last one, I swear. After this one I'll have the doctor tie my tubes and solder the knot just to make sure it'll never happen again."
I had no idea what she was talking about--a tube, a knot, a soldering gun--but I nodded my head as if she and I had just come to some sort of a private agreement that would later be finalized by a team of lawyers.
"I can do this one more time but I'm going to need your help." She was still crying in a desperate, sloppy kind of way, but it didn't embarrass me or make me afraid. Watching her slender hands positioned like a curtain over her face, I understood that she needed more than just a volunteer maid. And, oh, I would be that person. A listener, a financial advisor, even a friend: I swore to be all those things and more in exchange for twenty dollars and a written guarantee that I would always have my own private bedroom. That's how devoted I was. And knowing what a good deal she was getting, my mother dried her face and went off in search of her pocketbook.
Continues...
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THEATER REVIEW; The Courage To Accept That Life Is a Cheese Ball By BEN BRANTLEY Published: March 28, 2001, Wednesday
Isn't it wonderful what a nimble set of hands can do with a simple cheese ball...

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THEATER REVIEW; The Courage To Accept That Life Is a Cheese Ball By BEN BRANTLEY Published: March 28, 2001, Wednesday
Isn't it wonderful what a nimble set of hands can do with a simple cheese ball? And no, the hands do not belong to the hyperinventive Martha Stewart but to the wholesomely perverse brother-and-sister team of David and Amy Sedaris.
Two of the freshest satirists working today, the Sedarises have their own special gifts for reassembling leftovers. Take that cheese ball, for instance. It's the spherical center of ''The Book of Liz,'' the Sedarises' delightfully off-key, off-color hymn to clichés we all live by, whether we know it or not.
This basic orb-shaped hors d'oeuvre not only serves as the taking-off point for the plot, which is about a runaway from an Amish-like religious sect called the Squeamish. It also provides the essential conflict among the main characters, a convex mirror in which they can examine their souls, the answer to a perplexing mystery and a whole slew of gloriously bad metaphors.
Here, for example, is the title character, Sister Elizabeth Donderstock (played by Ms. Sedaris), in a philosophical mood: ''Stick a moon in the sky, put a nice smoky cheese ball on the table, and people will know when it's waning. But that's not always true of a person, is it?''
Now how far, honestly, is this tone of voice from many of the novels recommended on the Oprah show? The Sedarises are an essential corrective to the gospel of self-esteem. Now hovering on the edge of middle age, they have somehow managed to grow up in the era of laugh tracks, theme parks, self-help books and endless reruns without turning into either human Care Bears or way-cool disciples of disaffection.
As their latest offering, now at the Greenwich House Theater, reminds us, they are invaluable guides to a synthetic, self-recycling world. Mr. Sedaris, the essayist and public radio commentator, and Ms. Sedaris, an actress best known for ''Strangers With Candy'' on television, share an appalled and amused eye for the grotesque in popular culture.
They have collaborated to memorably corrosive effect in earlier plays like ''Stitches'' (in which a disfigured girl becomes a trend-setting supermodel) and ''One Woman Shoe'' (in which the welfare program is restructured as a talent contest). Now there is ''The Book of Liz,'' which considers, among other things, the American love for Americana, 12-step programs and spiritualism, as well as alternative medicine, gay waiters and, oh yes, the problems of excessive sweating.
''Liz,'' the Sedarises' first production for the Drama Dept., is their most civilized effort. The usual gross-out jokes are kept to a minimum, and the evening is without the endearing rough edges that made their previous shows feel like the work of stoned teenagers playing dress-up in the garage.
Directed by Hugh Hamrick, who also designed the drolly picturesque sets, and enacted by a priceless quartet of quick-sketch caricaturists, the production flows with polished professionalism through 75 intermissionless minutes. But the Sedarises have definitely not been made over into sanitized smoothness. A skewering wit keeps pricking through the surface, like a furtively held hypodermic needle. Before you know it, blood has been drawn.
This is evident from the opening moment, when the kneeling Reverend Tollhouse (Chuck Coggins), head of the Squeamish Community, begs God ''to accept the following compliments on my behalf.'' Now isn't that as nifty a description of prayer as you've ever heard? Even better is Tollhouse's explanation for the Shaker-like austerity of his sect: ''You have a good eye and thus, so shall we.''
That's the Sedaris style: tweaking the familiar until it warps. Ms. Sedaris, for example, seems to be sweating nervously when she appears, a common occurrence among actors and one we traditionally pretend to ignore. But then she just keeps getting wetter, until she is cascading water. Finally, Liz explains that she has always ''perspired like a stallion.''
Heavy perspiration, it turns out, is a virtue in Sister Elizabeth, who makes the popular cheese balls sold by the Squeamish. But before she learns to accept herself, she must flee her home, where life is lived as it was in the pre-Industrial Age, and take a journey through the Oz-like world outside.
There she undergoes a series of adventures amid Ukrainian refugees with cockney accents and recovering alcoholics. She also finds employment in a Pilgrim-themed restaurant, which features menu items like the ''We Hate the English Muffin'' and ''Willamsburgers'' and where her Squeamish attire fits right in. (Victoria Farrell's costumes match the script's flair for bringing out the cartoonishness in the ordinary.)
All sorts of language -- as ludicrously artificial as the set's painted scrims -- is inflated and punctured, whether it's the hysterical monologues of old movie soap operas, the tourist-trap quaintness of Squeamish speech or the fascist uplift of 12-step jargon.
This allows the characters to talk in a gleeful assortment of pastiches. ''Oh, Reverend, I've no temperament for chiving,'' for example, or: ''What is it, old friend, that I had to dress like a peanut in order to feel like a human again?''
The ensemble members, rounded out by David Rakoff and Jackie Hoffman, switch with pitch-perfect tone from grave ''Crucible''-style speech as the Squeamish to the perky self-centeredness of the assorted 12-steppers. They all have that golden comic instinct, associated with improv, for using one or two exaggerated traits to evoke an entire personality.
As Liz, Ms. Sedaris expertly employs her natural overbite and slumped shoulders to suggest both passive dejection and spunky defiance. Even disguised as a top-hatted peanut, her posture is eloquent with Liz's ambivalence.
There is also, of course, her poetic use of perspiration. Which sort of sums up the Sedarises, who process the soppy, whether it's physical or cultural, into something as dry as gunpowder.
THE BOOK OF LIZ
By the Talent Family, David and Amy Sedaris; directed by Hugh Hamrick; sets by Mr. Hamrick; costumes by Victoria Farrell; lighting by Kirk Bookman; sound by Laura Grace Brown; hair design by Steven ''Perfidia'' Kirkham; composer, Mark Levenson; production manager, Christian Douglas Cargill; stage manager, Jennifer Rae Moore. Presented by the Drama Dept. At the Greenwich House Theater, 27 Barrow Street, Greenwich Village.
WITH: Amy Sedaris (Sister Elizabeth Donderstock and Brother Hesikiah), David Rakoff (Brother Nathaniel Brightbee, Yvon, Donny Polk and Rudy Bruton), Chuck Coggins (Reverend Tollhouse, Visil and Duncan Trask) and Jackie Hoffman (Sister Constance Butterworth, Oxana, Cecily Cole, Sophisticated Visitor, Dr. Barb Ginley and Ms. Yolanda Foxley).
http://theater2.nytimes.com/mem/theater/treview.html?html_title=&tols_title=BOOK%20OF%20LIZ,%20THE%20(PLAY)&pdate=20010328&byline=By%20BEN%20BRANTLEY&id=1077011432294

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