David Sedaris moved from New York to Paris where he attempted to learn French. His teacher, a sadist, declared that every day spent with him was like giving birth – the Caesarean way. These essays were inspired by the move.
Me Talk Pretty One Day 12 csillagozás
Ez, kérem, nagyszerű, kiemelten ajánlott, és igazán remek lenne, ha megjelenne fordításban is, bár van néhány szóvicc, ami rendesen feladná a leckét (the youth in Asia, ehehehe).
Ha lehet, hangoskönyvben hallgassátok, mert Sedaris előadásmódja páratlan, például ahogy az észak-karolinai akcentust bemutatja, azon sírtam. Az a kedvenc részem, amikor Franciaországba költözik, és nyelvtanfolyamra jár, ahol mindenki iszonyú bénán beszél franciául, és megpróbálják elmagyarázni egy marokkói csoporttársuknak, mi az a húsvét. De van itt szó még családról, háziállatokról, művészetről, drogokról, amerikaiakról és európaiakról, és mindenről egy kicsit fanyar és melankolikus, mégis nagyon vicces és senkit sem bántó hangon. Érdekes, hogy amikor csak simán felolvas, mindig kicsit bánatosabbnak hangzik, mint amikor közönség előtt olvas, gondolom, a nevetés őt is feldobja.
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Nagyon bírom ezt a fajta hanyagul önfikázó humort, ami Sedaris sajátja, jókat szórakoztam a történetein.
Továbbá: a könyv (számomra) ideális hangoskönyv, mert egy történet kb. pont addig tart, amíg beérek a munkahelyemre, s így nem kell azon izgulni, hogy hol tudom kényelmesen megszakítani az olvasást.
Nem tudom, hogy az amfetaminok vagy a pia hatása, esetleg amiatt van, hogy Sedaris sokat dolgozott ipari oldószerekkel, de a fickó zseniális. Állítása szerint vannak macskák, akik több kilót nyomnak, mint amennyi az ő IQ-ja, de ez semmit nem változtat azon, hogy elzsibbadt a szám a vigyorgástól, míg ezt a könyvet olvastam. Bár már a családja is elég különc volt, David Sedaris valószínűleg az egész bandán túltesz (bár elég nagy a verseny) mindenféle elképesztő melóival, performance művészi ambícióival és franciaországi kalandozásaival. Totál őrült.
None of the [speech] therapy students were girls. They were all boys like me who kept movie star scrapbooks and made their own curtains. „You don't want to be doing that,” the men in our families would say. „That's a girl thing.” Baking scones and cupcakes for the school janitors, watching Guiding Light with our mothers, collecting rose petals for use in a fragrant potpourri: anything worth doing turned out to be a girl thing. In order to enjoy ourselves, we learned to be duplicitous. Our stacks of Cosmopolitan were topped with an unread issue of Boy's Life or Sports Illustrated, and our decoupage projects were concealed beneath the sporting equipment we never asked for but always received. When asked what we wanted to be when we grew up, we hid the truth and listed who we wanted to sleep with when we grew up. „A policeman or a fireman or one of those guys who works with high-tension wires.” Symptoms were feigned, and our mothers wrote notes excusing our absences on the day of the intramural softball tournament. Brian had a stomach virus or Ted suffered from that twenty-four-hour bug that seemed to be going around.
„One of these days I'm going to have to hang a sign on that door,” Agent Samson used to say. She was probably thinking along the lines of SPEECH THERAPY LAB, though a more appropriate marker would have read FUTURE HOMOSEXUALS OF AMERICA.
One. Go Carolina. 9-10. o.
For her, tanning had moved from an intense hobby to something more closely resembling a psychological dysfunction. She was what we called a tanorexic: someone who simply could not get enough. Year after year she arrived at the beach with a base coat that the rest of us could only dream of achieving as our final product. With a mixture of awe and envy, we watched her broiling away on her aluminum blanket. The spaces between her toes were tanned, as were her palms and even the backs of her ears. Her method involved baby oil and a series of poses that tended to draw crowds, the mothers shielding their children's eyes with sand-covered fingers.
After a few months in my parents' basement, I took an apartment near the state university, where I discovered both crystal methamphetamine and conceptual art. Either one of these things is dangerous, but in combination they have the potential to destroy entire civilizations. The moment I took my fist burning snootful, I understood that this was the drug for me. Speed eliminates all doubt. Am I smart enough? Will people like me? Do I really look all right in this plastic jumpsuit? These are questions for insecure potheads. A speed enthusiasts knows that everything he says or does is brilliant.
One. Twelve Moments in the Life of the Artist. Five. 44. o.
It often seems that my brother and I were raised in two completely different households. He's eleven years younger than I am, and by the time he reached high school, the rest of us had all left home. When I way young, we weren't allowed to say „shut up,” but once the Rooster hit puberty it had become acceptable to shout, „Shut your motherfucking hole.” The drug laws had changed as well. „No smoking pot” became „no smoking pot in the house,” before it finally petered out to „please don't smoke any more pot in the living room.”
One. You Can't Kill the Rooster. 62. o.
Every day we’re told that we live in the greatest country on earth. And it’s always stated as an undeniable fact: Leos are born between July 23 and August 22, fitted queen-size sheets measure sixty by eighty inches, and America is the greatest country on earth. Having grown up with this in our ears, it’s startling to realize that other countries have nationalistic slogans of their own, none of which are ‘We’re number two!
Luckily there's a hot dog cart not too far out of our way.
Friends always say, „How can you eat those? I read in the paper that they're made from hog's lips.”
„And hearts and eyelids.”
That, to my mind, is only three ingredients and constitutes a refreshing change of pace. I order mine with nothing but mustard, and am thrilled to watch the vendor present my hot dog in a horizontal position. So simple and timeless that I can recognize it, immediately, as food.
Part of the problem is that I have no one to talk to expect for the members of my current Frech class, who mean well but exhaust me with their enthusiasm. As young and optimistic as the characters on my cassette tape, they'll occasionally invite me to join them for an after-school get-together at a nearby café. I tried it a few times but, surrounded by their fresh and smiling faces, I coudn't help but feel I'd been wrongly cast in an international Pepsi commercial.
The Tapeworm Is In
WHEN ASKED „What do we need to learn this for” any high-school teacher can confidently answer that, regardless of the subject, the knowledge will come in handy once the student hits middle age and stars working crossword puzzles in order to stave off the terrible loneliness. Because it's true. Latin, geography, the gods of ancient Greece and Rome: unless you know these things, you'll be limited to doing the puzzles in People magazine, where the clues read „Movie title, Gone__ the Wind” and „It holds up your pants.” It's not such a terrible place to start, but the joy of accomplishment wears off fairly quickly.
At a chain coffee bar in San Francisco, I saw a sign near the cream counter that read NAPKINS COME FROM TREES – CONSERVE! In case you missed the first sign, there was a second one two feet away, reading YOU WASTE NAPKINS – YOU WASTE TREES!!! The cups, of course, are also made of paper, yet there's no mention of the mighty redwood when you order your four-dollar coffee. The guilt applies only to those things that are being given away for free. Were they to charge you ten cents per napkin, they would undoubtedly make them much thinner so you'd need to waste even more in order to fight back the piping hot geyser forever spouting from the little hole conveniently located in the lid of your cup.
I Pledge Allegiance to the Bag
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