Be careful what you wish for. When my first memoir, Chicken:
Self-Portrait of a Young Man for Rent, became a bestseller I was
living in the Bay Area. I got reviewed in the New York Times by Janet
Maslin. I basically begged the San Francisco Chronicle, my hometown
newspaper, on bended knee, to review the book. Their utter lack of
interest was a sharp poisonous pebble that kept reappearing in my shoe
no matter how many times I took it out. Now that I’ve moved away from
the Bay Area I expected the San Francisco Chronicle would have even
less interest in reviewing my next memoir Master of Ceremonies: a True
Story of Love, Murder, Roller Skates and Chippendales. Naturally, now
that I no longer live there, they reviewed the new book as soon as it
came out.
I spent a year of my life writing rewriting writing rewriting writing
rewriting writing rewriting writing rewriting writing rewriting and
writing this book. In the end I did 20 drafts of this book.
Meticulously crafting every word. Trying to make sure the comedy was
funny, the tragedy tragic and the pathos pathetic. Imagine my bitter
disappointment when Christina Eng, by all accounts a thoughtful,
intelligent, articulate human being, chose not to review my book, but
the book she thinks I should have written. It is one of the largest
and most serious of the peeves I keep pets. At what point in our
evolution did it become an accepted practice for reviewers to tell
writers what books they should write. I worked so very hard to make
my book full of rich, poetic, inventive language. I put so much time
and effort into making sure the jokes are funny. Trying to be true to
the sadness, the joy, the absurdity, the madness and the mundanity of
this very particular time in New York City, in America, when it was
raining man on ladies night and girls just want to have fun.
You would not know very little of this from reading Ms. Eng’s review.
Apparently she wanted me to write a sociological study about the
history and origin of Chippendales. I’m not a sociologist. I’m not a
historian. I’m a memoirist. It’s kind of like reviewing Angela’s
Ashes and berating Frank McCourt for not writing a social history of
poor children in Ireland. Towards the end of the review she writes
this: “‘Master of Ceremonies’ is a simply subjective account of the
Chippendales, locked in a particular time and place.” As if that was a
bad thing. That’s exactly what a memoir is. It’s a book of memories.
In the end I am happy that she quoted liberally from the book. At
least my words get to succeed or fail on their own merit. So I am
grateful for that. Look, I don’t mind someone telling me I suck if
they present a logical argument for why I suck. But to dismiss my
book because it’s not the book Ms. Eng wanted me to write, that’s just
don’t seem fair.
The universe is a strange and marvelous place. Today I found another
review of my book. This one is from Library Journal. Imagine my
surprise and delight when Katherine Litwin actually reviewed my book.
Not the book she wishes I’d written. The book I wrote. She actually
talks about the language, the comedy, the tenderness, the story, the
craft involved in creating this book. It was especially gratifying to
read this: “He avoids providing direct sociological commentary on the
sexual power dynamics at play in Chippendales, preferring to let
events speak for themselves.” Which is exactly what I was trying to
do. Present the moments, show the characters, as I saw them and lived
them. To try to bring readers into this strange moment in time, to
make them see and feel what it was like to be in the eye of the storm
rolling around in my top hat while Rome burned.
Please, Ms. Eng, I implore you, when you review a book, review the
book. Language, voice, style, craft. If the book is trying to be
funny, does it succeed? Does it hold your interest? Are there
interesting well-drawn characters? Is it well written? Do the pages
turned easily? Stuff like that. Well, that’s my two cents worth, and
with inflation I owe you one. (Enclosed find both reviews.)
Library Journal
“Master of Ceremonies” is the dizzying, tender, and true story of a
fledgling actor whose first break results in a two-year stint as the
emcee at Chippendales, in this work that is resplendent with seedy
glamour, hilarious backstage madness, and unflinching honesty. Sterry
chronicles his adventures as a struggling comic after he is hired as
the host of the popular all-male strip show Chippendales in the early
Eighties. He more than delivers on the promise of his title, and
readers looking for sex, drugs, and New York-style debauchery will
find it in spades. There is a tabloid-level sleaziness inherent in the
material, which Sterry utilizes for maximum entertainment value. He
avoids providing direct sociological commentary on the sexual power
dynamics at play in Chippendales, preferring to let events speak for
themselves. There are two underlying love stories, one between Sterry
and a coworker, and one between Sterry and his craft; both enrich the
narrative with genuine heart. Sterry possesses an engaging writing
style, and fans of his earlier memoir, Chicken: Self-Portrait of a
Young Man for Rent, will not be disappointed. Recommended for large
public library collections and cultural and media studies
collections.-Katherine Litwin, Chicago Library Journal (07/15/2008)

San Francisco Chronicle
Sex sells. That much we know. For the Chippendales, it sells seats. It
sells calendars. It exchanges fantasy for cash tips. In “Master of
Ceremonies: A True Story of Love, Murder, Roller Skates &
Chippendales,” David Henry Sterry recalls experiences he had hosting
the popular male strip show during the mid-1980s in New York City. He
describes what he saw onstage, behind the scenes and in the “tiny,
mirrored dressing room … full of beautiful, shaved-smooth Men either
putting on or taking off clothes,” and “the bad-cologne, musky-funk,
semen’n’sweat smell” around him, “all soured from not having had a proper
scrub for a very long time.” The passages are compelling, and often
wickedly raunchy. Unfortunately, Sterry’s overall narrative proves
ultimately disappointing.
At 25, Sterry loaded his possessions into an old green Toyota Corolla,
left San Francisco and moved to New York City. He struggled as an actor
and comedian, lining up auditions when he could and scouring the notices.
One day, on a lark, he answered an ad for the Chippendales; they needed a
master of ceremonies. To his amusement, he got the job. Though he was
“a reasonably pleasant-looking fellow,” he found himself intimidated
from the start by the tremendously toned male dancers, with their
“bulging bulges, mountain peak pecs, 6-pack man-rack abs and
cheekbones for miles.” Next to them, he felt like “a frog.”
The self-consciousness helps to establish his underdog persona, and
endears him to us. We learn to trust his sincerity. Sterry takes us
through the details of his debut with the Chippendales, the adrenaline
that night in the club, “packed and saturated with excited
expectation,” the part he played in keeping the predominantly female
audience entertained, and the stumbles he inevitably made.
(As the master of ceremonies, he was the only one onstage who kept his
clothes on – his costume included a top hat, tuxedo and roller skates -
and the only one who ever talked.)
In quick prose, he re-creates the atmosphere around him. He writes, for
example, of a dancer he calls Slick Rick, who, like the other men, flirted
devilishly with the women in the audience throughout his routine. They in
turn tipped generously. “Hundreds of greenbacks sprout up and wave in
the wind. Slick Rick harvests the cash crop with kisses. A beautiful
bride-to-be shoves bills
into his G-string like it’s a bank and she’s making direct deposits.”
He writes also of the Snowman, who had “this little insinuating smile on
his face, like he knows something I don’t know, and I’m sorta stupid for
not knowing it. He’s the kinda guy who swaggers even when he’s standing
still.” Sterry allows us to see what he saw and to feel what he felt.
What the author doesn’t do, however, is adequately discuss the development
of Chippendales. We want further insight, for example, on how the group
originated and evolved over the years and what its popularity means in a
cultural and social context. He does mention Chippendales director
and choreographer Nick de Noia, of course, and his business partner,
Steve Banerjee. In fact, Sterry begins
the narrative with the day-after police investigation of de Noia’s
mysterious death. But we only get glimpses of the true makeup of their
relationship. “Master of Ceremonies” is a simply subjective account
of the Chippendales,
locked in a particular time and place. We are given plenty of show, but
not nearly enough substance.