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Kharms, Daniil

Fedya Davidovich

HEY, Internet, I want to tell you all about Earideas.

Wow, that sounded a little snake-oily- let me try that again:

Step right up folks and have a look at the one, the only, the world’s finest, most discriminating, most hyperventilating-inducing collection of the web’s best audio content: Earideas.

There, that’s a little less in your shopping cart of the internet sell-out mall. And I won’t even mention that Miette’s Bedtime Story Podcast is included in the Earideas directory of the internet’s best audio content (Are you surprised, really?), although I guess it’s too late.

The real reason I want to tell you about Earideas is because I’ve been challenged. I’m supposed to find “The Five Best Podcasts I Know,” and while I do -know- of five other podcasts, it strikes me that -you- probably have the internet a little better tapped than I do.

So, uh, anybody know any good podcasts, other than this one? You can share them with me through the comments or by email to miette (at) this domain. And I won’t be offended, and assume that whatever you send is your Number 2 pick. Right?

Or, you can go straight to Earideas and tell them yourself.

And in exchange, I’ll give you a story. A good one.

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Ballard, J. G.

The Assassination of John Fitzgerald Kennedy Considered as a Downhill Motor Race

I was thinking about the last story I read to you, and thinking it’d be nice if other events of this variety, the sort of events that are difficult to explain to small children, were similarly reimagined. And not just on a large scale, either. I’m talking about The Pulling of My Wisdom Teeth Considered as a Jaunt Through a Daisy Field, or The Love Affair Between Gravity and my Ceiling, Considered as a Synchronized Swimming Spectacular. And here’s another.

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Jarry, Alfred

The Passion Considered as an Uphill Bicycle Race

I hope those of you celebrating All Things Autumnal are settling into it well, the roast fowl and the hot cacao and woodfire smoke for dessert, and, well, you know the picture I’m aiming for here. It does wonders to the general countenance, I think: case in point, we returned home not long ago to find the floor coated with the dust of construction detritus, and in the mood I was in, considered it almost as good as snow, a synaesthetic layering of scenariae which led this little brain of mine in a fourth-gear race to the nearest Jarry to share with you.

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Oates, Joyce Carol

Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?

I read in the news yesterday that television writers here in the U.S. have gone on strike, and that because of the strike, everybody’s arms are collectively thrown up in a great wide panic, because nobody knows what’s going to happen on Charmed and because there’s nobody to script the next great Wardrobe Malfunction, and this sounds like very bad news indeed and I was sorry to read it. Genuinely so, and not because of an audience’s deprivation, nor out of concern for people fortunate enough to make their means by slinging a pen (although I do!), nor out of personal political predilections about labor of the organized variety (though I have them!) but because it’s sad to think about all those characters in limbo (who knew Pirandello would prove the portent?) hanging off cliffs and otherwise unresolved.

But so, more helpful might be to present alternative programming. And, well, I happen to be able to help there. For the characters among you, hang in there.

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Leftwich, Edmund H.

The Bell Tone

At times during my podcastressing career, I have stumbled upon authors about whom I know very little, and have been fortunate to find that you, resourceful mariners of the Internet’s belly, have proven yourselves well worth your collective avoirdupois in gold and other fine metals, and for that, I thank you. Sometimes, in fact, I’ll strike big, and an author him or herself will get in touch and fill me in on the missing t-crosses and so on, and so I ask again, who can tell me anything about the author of this brilliant bit of sci-fi wonder, and more importantly, which of you respond to this story as wondrously as I did? Oh And Lastly: thanks to Soren for the recommendation.

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Carter, Angela

The Lady of the House of Love

Andrea was kind enough to suggest and supply a sufficiently Halloweeny bit of ghoulishness to reconcile the setback of temporary lack of access to mine own troves. In the hopes of exponentially increasing the sympathy factor, let it be known that in addition to being without books, the chief operating offices of Miette’s bedtime have been largely internet-free for the past weeks, in what would, under normal circumstances, leave a girl like me a little mildewy-eyed, save for the fact that, when I -do- find myself at Some Wretched Faceless Coffeechain Conglomerate, I log on to find fresh stories, and letters, and other epistolary well-wishes from the likes of you, and thank you for it.

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Wells, H. G.

The Red Room

So listen, about today’s story, well, as you’ll know when you listen to the first minute, I’m running low on resources at the moment, tapped, so to speak, at least, until things are nice and orderlied again. And so those willing to share might send their finds and recommendations via the Electronic Scenicroadway to miette (at) hereabouts (domain-wise). And to repay you in advance, why not check here for one of the better audio finds I’ve made in these parts. But I think for best effect, tackle tonight’s story first, OK?

Oh, and well, at the recommendation (read: incessant prodding to the point of NUISANCE, and you know who you are) of more than you than I’m able to count, fine, I’ve made a page on that web site everybody’s talking about where you can be my, well, “Friend,” if you can find me. Though I still can’t imagine why anyone would want to be on any other web site but this?

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Mansfield, Katherine

The Fly

While settling in and to avoid the appearance of mothballs, here’s another Mansfield. And while this isn’t the first time we’ve rocked her boat, she’s a voice so nice I’ll read her unspliced.

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Bradbury, Ray

I See You Never

Last night, I was thinking of what to write to you today while starting to doze off just prior to handing over the wheel. I woke up with one of those Holy Mother I’m Dozing Off kind of starts, and, as I was now more alert than usual during this leg of the trip, I made the sad discovery that what I’d read as the Bikini Avenue Exit was actually something far more G-Rated, and significantly less scandalous. Which was a drag for me, because I’ve spent months thinking, as I sleepily drove past the Bikini Avenue Exit, “well, no matter, if we break down here, I can live in a place like Bikini Avenue.” And now that I know better, you see, I’m a little nervous… what would happen were I to get stuck there, in a place NOT Bikini Avenue?

There’s a moral here somewhere, involving holding on to tired hallucinations, and applauding half-conscious on-road activity. You would probably be best to ignore it. Have a story instead!

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Davies, Rhys

Fear

Where I am, dear listeners, it’s hot. And for reasons which terrify some, confound others, and lead to the sort of mass collective eye-rolling that I’d rather avoid (because the energy produced therein would raise the outside temperature another half-degree), I’m not the sort to articondition the air. Which means: it’s hot, here, big vats of frying oil hot, and there’s no reprieve inside these walls.

And while I’d like to reach out and cry for help, I’m not sure you’d be able to distinguish the tears from the passel of sweat. So I’ll offer instead that if you’re now in one of those more mildly temperate climates, you should be counting celestial bodies. And if you, too, are sweating hard, well, we’ll do in sympathy, and doesn’t that sound nice, in its own way?

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