I've got a thing for guys named David

For me, telling a joke is like driving a car: I always get lost along the way. So I have an incompetent's appreciation for good comicry (and, of course, for expertise behind the wheel). And because laughter has bought me carefree moments in troubled times, I feel a debt of gratitude to the funny people on the screens and title pages of my life. But all too often, humorists get lazy, relying on insults and sexuendo for laughs. I don't know why that stuff tickles other people. It leaves me cold. (On the other hand, a really good fart joke squeezes the bahookie bubbles out of me every time.)

My onscreen favorite is, of course, Larry David, who spelunks the bat caves of human nature to shine a headlamp on the dank guano heaps that are our most foul faults.

But there is something special about portable laughs, and for those you need a book—and for that you need another David, David Sedaris. Many humorists spin a good yarn, but if they drop a stitch, they tend not to pull out the row and reknit it. They're not perfectionists. And they make me feel a little tense, as if the whole thing may come unraveled. The remarkable thing about Sedaris is that not only is he charming and funny but he is also a wonderful craftsman. His stories have flawlessly formed arcs. He always finds the right word, never settles for close enough. And while his grammar is not perfect, it's so good that you notice when he gets it wrong. Yet with all that care and burnish, his writing never feels forced or precious. You can ride along without a care and leave the driving to him. May I recommend When You Are Engulfed by Flames?