For those desiring a completely demented approach to the season, you can't overlook reading Holidays on Ice, by David Sedaris. This book is so zany and reprobate I wasn't sure I could stomach it, but, of course, I wish I had written it.
The opening memoir of Sedaris working as a Macy's elf is alone worth the price of admission. I had been saving this book for months, letting it soak up some of the cookie aromas and vanilla extract before opening its pages. Now I can shelve it under my "have read" section and let it air dry until next December.
Funny Christmas memories? We all have them. It's just that Sedaris makes a habit out of stepping in manure and calling it art; he's got the bad mojo of a hundred pound sumo wrestler and his self deprecating humor, if it were not so laugh-out-loud funny, would be borderline depressing. It's difficult for me to believe that so many bad things happen to one man, and in a way that he can write about.
Now I can go home and fix myself some hot chocolate and get to work on my own memoirs. My life is not nearly as funny . . . unless, of course, I tell you about the year we stuffed and mounted the family dog.
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