David Sedaris at Edinburgh: 'I'll never run out of things to laugh about'

[AdamSmith]

I love Sedaris. Thought maybe he was losing it with his last book, but the new one mentioned below is him in top form, from the one story I've read in it so far (the one about visiting the taxidermist, also mentioned below).

David Sedaris at Edinburgh: 'I'll never run out of things to laugh about'

As he prepares for his Edinburgh festival show, David Sedaris talks about the things that scare him: hecklers in their 80s, the stench of enthusiasm – and the word 'loo'

• Stuart Jeffries
• The Guardian, Sunday 4 August 2013 13.00 EDT

David Sedaris: 'People keep asking me, "When are you going to run out of things to write about?" Why would I?' Photograph: Jacob van Essen/Hoge Noorden

One day David Sedaris went into a taxidermy shop to buy a stuffed owl for his boyfriend Hugh. It was a Valentine's gift. I know what you're thinking: what's wrong with chocolates and flowers? But let's press on. "Later," says the American author and humourist who has made his home in London and West Sussex, "I start writing this story about buying Hugh an owl for Valentine's day. And it's not working. The only person it would resonate with is someone who's bought an owl. And that's like three people in the world.

"So I rewrote it and made it about meeting someone for the first time and having that feeling that they're looking into your black heart right through all the filters. And you feel so exposed and grateful that they see you for who you are. That made it a story because that's a feeling everyone can relate to, right?"

Before I can answer – heaven knows what I would say – tea and scones arrive. "With lashings of whipped cream and jam," announces the waiter. "I like that he said lashings," Sedaris whispers, as the waiter retreats. "I can't get enough of that word."

We're taking afternoon tea somewhere nice in London and the native of North Carolina, best known here for his books and his Radio 4 series Meet David Sedaris, can't wait to get back to owls. The guy who looked into Sedaris's black heart was the taxidermist at Get Stuffed in Islington. As Sedaris relates the story in his latest book, Let's Explore Diabetes with Owls, the man looked him over then pulled out a bag. "Now a smell is going to hit you when I open this up," he warned. "But don't worry. It's the smoke they use to preserve the head."

Inside the bag was a teenage girl's head, some 400 years old. Why, Sedaris wondered, would this guy think he'd be interested in that? Or, as happened earlier, the skeleton of a pygmy? As he explains in his book, people often make assumptions about him. "I've been mistaken for a parent, a pickpocket, and even, God forbid, an SUV-owner. What's rare is not to be misread. The taxidermist knew me for less time than it took to wipe my feet on his mat and, with no effort whatsoever, looked into my soul and recognised me for the person I really am: the type who'd love a pygmy and could easily get over the fact that he'd been murdered for sport, thinking breezily, 'Well, it was a long time ago.' I could imagine my neighbours whispering as I walked down the street, 'They say he has a pygmy.' I'd love to be talked about this way – how did the taxidermist know?"

It's possible Sedaris will read this story at An Evening with David Sedaris, his Edinburgh show. But he may not, as he often changes his plans once he's got the measure of an audience. The show is billed as an encounter with "America's pre-eminent humour writer" and what will happen is this: you'll arrive and Sedaris will greet you at the door and shake your hand. "That way, if you need people's forgiveness during or after the show, they'll give it to you because they feel they know you. I worry that, this being Edinburgh, people will think it's a stand-up show and heckle."

Has anyone ever heckled him? "In Chicago," he recalls. "An 80-year-old lady. She yelled, 'Enough already. Enough with the filth and the four-letter words.' It didn't look good to be mean to her, like you would with an ordinary heckler." But what he especially fears is the warm-up guy getting the crowd too stimulated. "It's happened. I'm in the wings and some guy is saying, 'Are you excited to meet David? Can't hear you!' Then I have to go on into that stench – the stench of enthusiasm." He has learned not to kick off with funny passages. "The stuff that gets the big laughs I save for later, then I can cover up what happened earlier – like a cat in a litter tray."

After the reading, there will be a question-and-answer session. Here's a tip: don't ask stupid questions. "Somebody once asked, 'If you were a hot dog, what kind of condiment would you be?' I could have answered, 'Ketchup with you later.' But I just sighed and said, 'Next question.'" There will then be book signings. Just don't be surprised if Sedaris eats his dinner as he signs. "When else am I going to have it? At 3am in the hotel? I don't think so."

So, any happy memories of Edinburgh? "One year, Hugh and I couldn't get a hotel so we ended up staying in this very Christian family's house, in the son's bedroom. I looked out of the window and there was the son in the camper in the driveway glowering at me." He cackles. "The fags took all the rooms!"

I demand a better Edinburgh story. "I was just told this story that's too good to be true. A woman sleeps with this guy at his place. He leaves early to go to work. She defecates in the toilet but realises it's blocked, so she fishes the turd out and puts it in a plastic bag, planning to put it in a trash can after she leaves. Then she writes him a note about what a lovely time she's had and leaves. Just as the door clicks, she realises she's left the turd on the kitchen counter." We both laugh and, in my case, wince – wondering if this sort of thing really happens in Edinburgh. Glasgow, maybe. "That's what I live for, that kind of story. People keep asking me, 'When are you going to run out of things to write about?' Why would I? I could leave here and get run over and write about that. I'm not afraid of running out of material – no more than a fiction writer would be."

I glance at Sedaris as he sips mint tea. The glasses that make him look as nebbish as Woody Allen lie on the table. He's now 56 and has been writing and reading this self-immolating, scabrous stuff for years now. I've been laughing at it for more than two decades, ever since his SantaLand Diaries, which described his time working as Crumpet the Elf at a Macy's store in New York one Christmas. As I glance at him, I recall a fantasy story in Barrel Fever, in which Sedaris imagines having sex with Mike Tyson that ends up with the writer swallowing the boxer's false teeth.

But I wonder if, these days, he's increasingly relying on being an outsider, an American abroad, to get funny material. He lived in France for years and, in 2008, made the move to England. He would like to live in Germany for a year and has been learning the language. Only problem: Hugh loves his Sussex garden too much to uproot. Is he becoming a travel-hopping succubus, like a dirtier – and much funnier – Bill Bryson? "But I didn't move to France or here to write about it. I learned in France there's, like, tourist observation – and you need to move beyond that to write interestingly as an outsider."

He's delightful about Scotland, but when I mention my looming holiday in Pembrokeshire, he says: "I was in Wales the other week and I thought they might as well just eat each other's asses. It says 'coffee shop' and you get instant coffee. Oh try. Would it kill you to try?"

In the new book, there's a fine chapter about Obama's 2008 election. He was in France at the time and, when Obama won, found himself being congratulated by the French. "But it wasn't, 'How wonderful that you have a thoughtful new president.' It was, 'How wonderful that you elected the president we thought you should elect.'" Later, during Obama's inauguration, he was in London watching the BBC and couldn't believe that "every three seconds" he was reminded that Obama was black and would become America's first black American president.

At its best, this outsider perspective can reveal truths locals might miss. In another new story, called Rubbish, he excoriates his Sussex neighbours for what they have done to their countryside, suggesting DNA tests be done on every discarded can and wrapper. Culprits could then be arrested, perhaps shot. A touch extreme? "I don't think so. I find it exasperating because this country is unspeakably beautiful. I've been to places that are not beautiful – Texas. But here, you've got a place that's so beautiful that's being trashed up. I think cars that are clean should be stopped and the drivers arrested." Why? "If your car has no trash in it, you've chucked it out of the window." I suspect the conviction rate would be low. "I guess. I just don't get some things about this country. I'll never fit in. I can't use Britishisms. I couldn't ask where the loo is. I'd feel a fraud."

Time for Sedaris to go. He has to buy pillow protectors for the people staying at his place while he's in Edinburgh. He apologises for not telling me a good festival story involving late-night debauchery. "I don't drink, you see." So he never goes on the lash? "On the what?" Lash. He giggles. These Britishisms. Lashings of cream, going on the lash – it takes an outsider to spot that so many of our expressions have a weird S&M vibe.

"I just need the bathroom," he says. Typical American, I think, as he trots off. He'll be so disappointed when he finds there isn't a bath in there.

http://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/aug/04/david-sedaris-edinburgh-festival-interview