Jesse Hill Ford (December 28, 1928 - June 1, 1996) was an American writer of Southern literature who produced one good novel (Mountains of Gilead), one popular novel (The Liberation of Lord Byron Jones) and a host of mediocre works entirely at odds with his public posturing at the heir-apparent to William Faulkner.

– Wikipedia Entry on Jesse Hill Ford

And maybe that’s true, beats me. I mean, I’ve gotten the impression that he wasn’t necessarily the mowing-the-lawns-of-the-elderly sort of gregarious, in character anyway. And I don’t know enough about his writing to know if the above is true or not.

But in the interest of improving the accuracy and objectivity of the world’s knowledge (which, I suppose, is the point), I’m drawing your attention there now. Hopefully we can resolve this before it becomes a full-on obsession, before I start the Jesse Hill Ford Credibility Restoration PAC, or somesuch.

It’s funny, imagining John Fahey sitting in a hotel rampantly scrawling. Not because he’s so otherwise voiceless, or should relegate his expressiveness to the steel-stringed style, or other reasons fascistic or idiotic. He’s just one of those guys one imagines (if the “one” doing the imagining were “me,” admittedly) never to have put down his guitar for anything other than a whiskey glass or a pee. You just don’t get that good if you have to stop to put it down. So it’s nearly impossible to think of him not only putting it down, but picking up a pen long enough to get good at that too.

And he was pretty good– listen for the mad scientist bit, partially quoted above.

In fact, if he and I were teenage girls, I might have to start a jealous fight with him over this.

And tonight’s super special Feel-Better-Just-For-a-Minute (or Feel-Even-Better-if-You’re-Already-Feelin-Okay) soundtrack by the author, but let’s keep it between us, okay?

In other words, not nearly as fun as speculation, and besides, I’m not about to give you all the information you’d need to know to perform such a task. But I will ask you this: have a listen (and keep your jaw taped up off the floor — this is a good one) and a think about it, and see what comes up. It could be worse, after all. We could be discussing politics.

Now, I was going to read you something from the Moomins, but it’s not quite as charming when removed from the illustrations of big Moomin innocently bent-over butts. Or rather, it’s just as charming, but I’m hopelessly unable to convey Moomin-butt-drawing charm by voice alone.

And besides, the Summer Book is pretty archetypal for changing-tree times. As much as bonfires and maybe as much as the Shrimp Song that Townes van Zandt sang. Any other absolutely perfect end-of-summer stories? I’m in a wood-fire mood.

And then waking from that little spat of brain damage to the discovery that… well, maybe I’d missed the point entirely.

The next morning, having forgotten about the whole scene thanks to a night of Thomas Disch dreams, I made the coffee and fed the cat, whose breakfast made its way back up several minutes later. And right in the middle of the mess was the cutest slick brown fur, with tail still mostly undigested.

Despite the fact that I had to clean it up, I was so proud.

Now, given that it’s superhero-movie-season, I asked to assist anyway, even though I -knew- it had nothing to do with the battery. I asked if he needed a jump, because where logic ends, blind altruism begins and I thought it’d be a good thing, to make somebody’s day, get him on the road again. So I offered the jump which was accepted, and pulled up beside him and got the cables and gave it a good effort, though it was doomed, pathetic really, as his under-hood ineptitude evidently rivaled mine own. Which is to say, it was worthless. And I couldn’t get the brake set right and was parked on a backward incline — or maybe a decline — in any event so I had to keep gassing to keep up the appearance of being idle, all the while trying HARD not to look like the idiot who can’t use the brake, much less get another car started.

And I’m not sure what I did end up looking like that night, but I’m fairly certain that it wasn’t confused with superheroics, and that it was clear to a discerning passerby, even if that passerby were to have been the subject of tonight’s story.

With these words, it is clear that if Nigel Dennis were still around I’d be his groupie. I’d start the FaceBook Club and make mashups on Youtube for him and disguise myself as an editor at Rolling Stone Magazine to obtain his personal email address, which I would then use in ways the word “subterfuge” can only begin to imagine. And when I web-two-dot-ooh’ed the Nigel Dennis article in the Wikipedia and tag it up, the index would indicate that Nigel Dennis writes about obscene bile-spewing puking beasts kept as pets because that’s what people do, and at this, you would join my Nigel Dennis FaceBook Club and we’d all order matching t-shirts. I -know- you would.

And in the FOR ME column of our imagined list, not in the treasured top slots but up there, would be the gift of Joycean spam upon a digital reemergence: boltmaker stippled scrapy heartedness burgoo overplentiful unended hydrophobous.

But for some reason all I could think was that these monkeys are capable of catching fish with their bare hands, and in the modern on-demand way we’d expect of them, when it takes me hours of unraveling knots and tying knots and waving a stick around in the water before, if I’m very very lucky, I manage to land anything more than ingredients for a muck-and-weed juice drink.

And then I snapped out of it and thought: huh, jealous of monkeys. Well, why not?

In other news, a killer thunderstorm knocked the power out twice before settling into the atmosphere needed for Poe regaleritics.

So a personal note to identity thieves in training: when you’re done with me, at least return me with a few heavy anecdotes and a thrilling punked-up haircut. OK?

Free Fish! Please Give Steve Buscemi a good home.

And of course I did. I found an exceptional home for him, a home where he’s given all the love and post-traumatic care that he needs, and maybe even such environmental niceties as filters and plastic sunken ships. And I mention this now not out of gratitude to his new clan, although that’s there in spades, nor out of self-congratulations for my successful act as adoption supervisor, though, you know, I felt pretty good about the rare chance at a good charitable act.

But on the off-chance that the noontime hot-sidewalk abandoner stumbles across this page, you little shit, do send me an email so I can say a few inappropriate and depravedly nasty words to you directly. Anonymous tips will not be prosecuted.

But something good came of it, in that it’s a more natural anecdotal segue than I’m used to.

(This a second-hand mic, a little poppier than usual, back next week purring into the usual devices)

And I should mention… I’m not much for promotion other than that of the Self, but those of you with an interest in the more overtly prurient might take a shine to the new podcast of my friend Mia (also worthwhile bedtime material), most subtly titled I Want Your Sex. And for those of you without an interest in the overtly prurient, well, don’t click there, ok?

But it hasn’t been quiet enough. All week there’ve been people, russian sailors doing ballet with cinderblock slippers (if you need some imagery), fewer than ten feet above my head, all day, back and forth and back again.

But today, I could hold out no longer, and instead of waiting for a quiet day, waited for a quiet spell, which was a way shorter wait.

That said, if you listen closely, in perfect silence and with headphones held tight, you may hear with your very own button-ears what I been hearing. Didja??

And I almost had to stop and compose myself, because I was so deeply distressed by the fact that frost can’t heave in private (and I’m not a histrionic sort of girl), and saddened that a frost’s heave has to be announced clearly for any old asshole who happens to be driving by, and that even though this old asshole was told that the frost was heaving, which was too much, I wanted more… I wanted a sign telling me exactly why the frost was heaving.

Well, it was then explained to me that this condition probably had very little to do with the emotional state of the frost, and was intended as a warning to the state of the pavement. Which made me better about the frost, which I care about a little more than pavement. Apparently, this old asshole is also a little biased that way. Which is not meant to offend any pavement that happens to be listening.

So, many times it’s been asked of me, and many times I’ve answered that I, in what sometimes seems to be my inestimable ignorance, am aware of far fewer African writers than I should be. And, in the equally inestimable ignorance of the publishers of many of the short fiction anthologies from which I ply stories to read to you… well, you guessed it.

And rest assured, this is an acknowledgement that makes me wish I were flexible enough to kick my own ass, because a story like tonight’s makes me think I should. But I’m not (flexible enough), which is where guys like Isaac are useful. So thank you Isaac, and if others of you want to introduce me to something new, send it along.

But rest assured, there’s nothing Victorian here. Not much, anyway. Maybe a metaphor for industry, revival architecture, the destruction and rebirth of the city… honestly, there’s nothing Victorian in today’s story. Would you just listen to it already?

And I assure you, Roadsome Load is NOT the title of tonight’s story, and the problem was one of those lingual bowline knots that only whiskey or a nearby leatherman can unhinge. Fortunately for both me and my tongue, it worked out its own kinks JUST in time.

What I need is a blooper outtake bungle reel.

Because, you know, there aren’t many articles written about this, which is surprising, because from the sound of things, the race for this public office is not of no importance. So it was nice to find such an article, one that really cuts to the quick of the more serious matters of a campaign. In it is quoted an assistant, or an aide, or associate (who can remember when you’re reading through the dengue) who says something to the paraphrastic effect of “you know, you really get to know her, and she gets in your foxhole, and you get in her foxhole.”

Now, when you think about it, surely you know what’s being suggested here. But when you don’t think about it, or when you’re sick and can’t think about it, it might mean something else entirely. It might remind you of Barthelme. Don’t you think? Might it?

The fantasies were pretty grand, actually, as I patiently crawled alongside the road behind him, and I was just about to peel around him and slam on the brakes, when from nowhere and with no warning, the student hangs an unannounced left turn and smashes right into a car parked not ten feet away from us.

It occurs to me now that this student might be reading this, and if so, listen, man… there’s still hope for you.

The first time I ever drove I blew an engine. While driving in the middle of a major metropolitan area. And this was about a year before receiving a license. But you know, I was motivated by a determination not unlike that of the star of tonight’s story, although maybe without the desire to receive a beating.

So you stay focused, and stay clear of lawyers.Oh, and while you’re at it, do stay away also from any vehicles I happen to be driving.

For Dream, remembered always, and loved even longer.

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.

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.

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?

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!

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?

I LOVE SARAH, KINDA?

Which is nice, but only kinda. And some advice to other budding young taggers in need of epic gestures of romance: maybe you might consider keeping the paint safe in the can until you’re a little more sure of things, right?

And if that specific Sarah is reading, I’m sure he or she was just having a moment. I’m sure you’re loved, totally!

And on days like these, you, as a podcastress, would be grateful for offers from your listeners, to muscle it out for you. And you’d sit back, and listen, and think, “well, this is nice, to sit back and listen, isn’t it?”

And I can hear you now: “Oh, that’s nice Miette, but Bloomsday is about Ulysses. When are you going to read Ulysses?”

Well, I didn’t do the entire thing (maybe next year) but with my friends at Librivox, we’ve managed to satisfy the best sort of Bloomophile. I’m serious. Really so.

And excuse me for saying so, but I think I’ve outdone myself here. QED: tonight’s story involves mention of Proust and Montaigne, chimpanzees, booze, guns, the laws of probability, and haughty old rich guys. And if that isn’t enough, tonight’s blathery preface involves mention of raccoons, trailmix, and the implication of a bloody battle of which there was only one survivor.

And if that’s not exciting enough for you, next time I’ll read to you while underwater and chained up in front of Times Square.

I wonder if anybody’s ever developed Disdain By Association for these stories thanks to listening at the dentist.

And today’s could be considered one of those exceptions except I expect one of you may be able to present me with A Clue. And so, consider this a Bedtime Story Challenge: ply me with the choicest bits of biographical enumeration on tonight’s author, and I will ply you with a brand new novel, of my choice (but you know my taste is a good one) from me to you, courtesy of the mailperson. There are no rules other than that- the most thorough and confirmable (or alternatively, the most outrageous) bits of triviata about This Ms Barsony wins the prize. Hip hip storytime.