An excerpt from Barrel Fever

I'm currently listening to Barrel Fever on my iPod. It is one of David Sedaris's earlier books I think...or not. I don't know. Some of it is funny and some of it is not--and makes me think the not-funny elements are what his sisters must think of his humor most of the time.

Background: Gil is a friend of his, that he had acquired as a child largely because they were too weird for anyone to be friends with. He and Gil used to drink together often, but one day Gil decided he was an alcoholic, and obviously David Sedaris thought that was pathetic. Tommy is the super of his building, who knocked on Sedaris's door one day to ask for advice on how to stop drinking, as he had started blacking out. When Sedaris wondered why Tommy was asking him, the super said he had noticed Sedaris's trash and knew he was also an alcoholic. Because Sedaris was miffed at being grouped with the super--in all respects--he told him that as a matter of fact he could help Tommy remember what had occurred during that last blackout. Tommy had actually come begging Sedaris to let him give him a blow job for $100. Sedaris told Tommy he had pitied him and just given him the money and begged him to go away, but that he had had to tug his belt buckle out of Tommy's grasp. All of this was a lie, of course. This, in Sedaris's mind, is what describes a legitimate "bottoming out." What follows is a few of David Sedaris's thoughts on his own blackout alcoholism....

While Gil is worthy of attention his story is not. He hasn't even had any blackouts. I've had a few...more than a few, but they always take place in private and they're nothing to write home about...nothing like Tommy's. The closest I've come to the Tommy zone was three weeks ago, when I received a telephone bill listing quite a few late night calls to England. The curious thing is that I do not personally know anyone in England. I thought they'd made a mistake and considered protesting the charges until a few days later, when leaving through a stack of magazines on the living room floor, I came upon a heavily notated page from the TV Guide.

I saw where I had circled and placed seven stars next to that week's three-part PBS mystery presentation. At the bottom of the page were a series of oddly arranged numbers. These matched the numbers on the telephone bill, leading me to assume that I must have actually dialed international information and phoned Scotland Yard at the end of each program to congratulate them on another job well done.

Still though, there's nothing to get worked up about. Exceptional would be to find yourself on a plane headed to England wearing a tweed cap and demanding the stewardess put you in touch with Chief Inspector Tennyson.

Since receiving my last phone bill, I have taken to fastening the telephone to its cradle, using some of the threaded packing tape stolen from what used to be my job. In the rare event of an incoming daytime call, I can always grab a knife but luckily the task appears to be too strenuous during my ever increasing personal mystery hours. Another problem solved with simplicity and grace.