These days, when the shadows on your computer screen start doing some sort of cold Finnish tango across the monitor, maybe you should refrain from thinking you work too hard, and just sit back and try to enjoy it.

Storytime!

(N.B. OH! And if this story doesn’t keep you sated until next time, you really should go and see my friends at Revolving Floor, where I’ve put voice to microphone on a glorious Lilithian poem by Amy Meckler. Get over there.)

Nice, right? Apparently an artist named Luca Dipierro is to blame.

But it’s time to forcibly extract the candy from your eyes and cram it in your ears. Here’s a story.

For those interested, I dug up a little history about the story and posted it over here.

But I have neither alien nor supervillain powers, nor, really, the desire to be violent in an anvil-dropping way, so instead, I started to think about what these months might be like if I had my say.

And hence, Benito Lynch. Hope it keeps you warm.

It’s a fiery little story, though. Let me know what you know, if you know what I think you know. And if you don’t know, teach me Greek.

And, this is the last time I’ll mention it here (for now), for fear of becoming Miette’s Bedtime Story Infomercial, but if you’re still hungry when you’ve finished with this, you should listen to my narration of the first chapters of The Man Who Can’t Die.

And because I’m not above shallow attempts to inveigle you into listening, let me mention that this story includes a pivotal scene with one man sucking the blood from the neck of the other. How’s that for a quick million?

Also, note that tomorrow (7th January 2010) will feature the debut of my audio recording of Jon Frankel’s The Man Who Can’t Die. I’m not as good at pure self-promotion as a I am inveigling, or else you would have found out about this podcast through some anthropomorphic cartoon string bean singing a jingle about it on the television. But I’m excited about it and hope you are too.

xo
– Mtte.

ps: for those in need of a stocking stuffer, here’s a sneak peek at Jon Frankel’s The Man Who Can’t Die, which I’ll be reading beginning next year, along with your regular shorter gems here. Can’t wait for you to hear it.

There was a time when I was little (and I was so cute, and so little!) when I wanted to be Jane Bowles. I was obsessed with the puppet show, unhealthily so, though thinking back now, I can’t think of any self-respecting adult who’d have introduced such a cute little thing to it.

But so I did not grow up to be Jane Bowles, nor a master puppeteer, though I’m lucky to have grow up (more or less) to be the sort of girl who’s still really excited to find a hefty copy of her collected works in a used bookshop in a far off town.

That said, I’m also the sort of girl to take her dog swimming in a hotel pool, so that’s quite enough autopanegyric.

A story:

Well, actually, I mean to do exactly that. The pain as rendered in tonight’s story is as visceral as words can create, and while I know your constitution can take it, I wanted to give you a chance to brace yourselves. Which is not to say that this is a story about pain, or one of those gruesome hyperviolent boy’s club tales that are all the rage* in certain circles. It’s not even a story about coping (although there’s plenty of that). You’ll have to listen to get the whole extent of the way she handles the body-mind wrestling match. But again: brace yourselves.

For those of you who just listen and don’t bother with my introductory pap, perhaps now is a good time to put your eyes to the above. I’m not fooling!

And about those round food monks mentioned in the story’s introduction, my mind will explode if it doesn’t implore. What do you think?

*a pun.

But there’s something about a perfectly wrought piece of existential blues that never fails to set me on fire, and it doesn’t matter how heavy the hands that deal the metaphorical blow, I just lie down and prostrate myself to it, or dip myself in candy and find the nearest wrapper, sucker-like.

And of course, if the story’s painfully good (haha) on top of that, I’m a total lost cause. Wrap up warmly and enjoy it.

(and PS: I read german poorly, and there’s not much Aichinger available in English translation, so if you have some, consider yourself lucky, or even better, generous (when you wrap it up and send it to me as a holiday gift))

Note: includes an outburst of wicked laughter. You’re welcome.

Now, at least a few of you are going to go perfervidly huffy with me for spoiling the whole work for you. And to that, in the spirit of rapprochement, I should remind you gently that this isn’t reality television or a celebrity love affair or the latest movie by the I See Dead People fellow. I mean, we’re talking about stories that were written a century and change ago, and you can go here to read them before taking a listen here. Or after. Or during. It’s the damned internet, where you can basically do whatever you want (or so I’ve heard).

And so, thanks Alex for the recommendation– you’re more than right about the rip-roaringness of the action, and if you keep asking, maybe I’ll read the rest.

So, several months ago, I may or may not have been at a certain big bookish event, and I may or may not have chatted briefly with a representative of an independent publisher known for foresightedness and inventiveness and openmindedness and other qualities sometimes surprising of publishing types. And during this chat, that may or may not have happened, the publisher may have mentioned an author in her catalogue that may (or may not) gel with my very fussy and finicky tastes, and later, I may or may not have gotten my sticky mitts on an illicit copy of that author’s book of short stories.

And it’s hard to say whether or not any of this actually happened, or whether or not this story is related to that anecdote. I mean, it was several months ago, and we all know what happens to memory. But however I may have come across tonight’s author, when I did it was not unlike experiencing a breakthrough while slurping an oyster on the street with one’s lasting love.

If we’re lucky, you’ll feel the same.

Number 1: I (your Miette) have never owned an iron. So god only knows if, in my delivery of tonight’s monologue, I am at all able to capture the sorts of things that go through a woman’s head while performing such an act.

Number 2: It is my opinion that “She blew shining bubbles of sound” is perhaps one of the finest phrases ever to be shucked from our language, and the fact that it exists in this narrative makes me think the entire thing’s worth another close listen by all of us.

Number 3: I’m not kidding in tonight’s blathery introduction about the naughty naked puppets, though I won’t tell you where people who get here by that route are being sent. Now, I suppose, they’ll just come here. I win!

Okay, your turn?

Enjoy a fine listen this actual autumn. I’ll yam at you next week with something fresh out of Canada, and I’ll bet money that you’ll love it.

Here’s the thing: I just love stories about sentient animals. I can’t get enough of talking dogs or super-intelligent rats or telekinetic polar bears– this is the stuff of unconditional love. And I know the analogies presented in this trope can only go so far, sure. But I don’t care– I could start a website called Miette’s Podcasted Stories of Intelligent Animals, and be perfectly happy doing so.

As it is, looking through the archives, there’s not much represented here yet — there’s the Saki, which is hilarious, and now Leiber, which is one of those that will hopefully make you check yourself in the mirror and pucker your nose in search of a stray whisker. I have several others in mind, but meanwhile, do feel free to fill it with your suggestions as well.

And I didn’t really think about how topical tonight’s story was until I listened to the reading of it. But Villiers de l’Isle-Adam may have been a little cigar-tunneling heavyhanded in his symbolism in this story (just a smidge), but I’m thinking he might have been on to something.

And if you haven’t read L’Ève Futur, there’s no time like now. You can read it while waiting in line to be judged by the Panel.

There had been times in his youth, in the ardor of young manhood, when he had cherished ambitions to be somebody great and important. He had not succeeded in surpassing a decent mediocrity. But in this assured, deep-rooted, indestructible mediocrity he had the satisfaction of thinking about those who struggled, those who had a faith, an ideal, a political, social, or artistic belief for which they strove, for which they suffered privations and anxieties – and which perhaps they never saw realized.

I mean, it’s enough to force even the likes of to shut the valve off and get back to reading affectionately to the children.

On a mostly unrelated note, one of the top authors in Miette’s Preferred Podcasted Authors Network here, Bart Midwood, has a new project in the works that I can’t help but pass along. Do add word of The Francophile to your Myface Twitty Bookmarks Feeds and if you’re in the area we’ll go see it together on opening night.

I don’t get the chance to kick back and listen to another’s purring drone very often, but when Patrick delivers the musing about Fran’s hair, there was a little patter in this dark heart o’mine.

And if you think all babies are angelic beauties and that children are some sort of personification of happiness, this may help set you straight — and in that sense, it’s a morality story. Hope you like. More from me next week.

In his forward to the collection of Pancake’s stories, James Alan McPherson quotes from a letter he received from Pancake: “Anyway, what was that Latin phrase about the Obligation of Nobility? If it’s what I think it means — helping folks — it isn’t bad as a duty or a calling. We’d both better get back to work.”

And there are some stories that cause us to shake the fog forcibly from our head, that draw our pens to the paper and force us to get back to work. And let me tell you something, these stories do that. And I know it’s summertime and we should take it easy and allow ourselves to dawdle in the sun, but if you need a firecracker tossed under your feet to get you to dance, you should have a listen.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to trying to glue the heads back on my flowers.

Meanwhile, Happy Bloomsday and here’s another from Dubliners.

One day I’ll just relent and read them all to you, but that’d be a big project, and if you’re anything like me, you’re already running on the fumes of big projects. And if you’re smarter than me, you’ll have discovered a long time ago that when you have too many big projects, the best way to make absolutely certain that you don’t forget to do another one is to tell the Internet about it then whet its palette with anticipation. And you can do so with such a painful and potentially-affected self-consciousness as to ensure that you’ll be forgiven if it takes you a decade to follow through on that promise. And if you’re as tight-fisted as me, you’ll know that this way of going about things is way cheaper than seeing a shrink.

But in any event, if you don’t know the Winter’s Tales, you should read them yourselves. For now, I’ve settled on that which I find most fabulist and late-springish in its step.

Come to think of it, getting one’s socks knocked off is one of those idioms that doesn’t sound like much fun, especially if your feet aren’t just washed. Or if it’s cold where you are. If you wish to throw your arms around your nerdish side, here’s the most convincing enumeration I’ve found for the origin of the phrase. Or, if you just want to sit back and stick your feet up and see what it’s like to have your socks knocked off, listen on.

But consider yourself forewarned: this is not a work of jolly maypole-dancing return-to-innocence, though it is appropriate and recommended for young and old, whether in classroom, cabana, cubicle or coffin.

In sadder news, J.G. Ballard has died, and I encourage you to have a listen to this reading of The Assassination of John Fitzgerald Kennedy Considered as a Downhill Motor Race. And then you might need to go out and read everything he’s ever read, and thank me for it.

On a not-unrelated-note, I’ve got these things called “tags” in place on this web site, which would have been a Real Big Deal about seven years ago, and which I’m just now getting around to. It’s not complete, but it allows you to do things like see all the Scandinavian stories I’ve read, and slap your forehead in disgust at how many more I need to read. I suppose this could be useful if you ever find yourself in a mood. Expect things to get interesting around here. Har det bra!

And as I mention when reading tonight’s story, this alone makes today one of the best days anybody’s had, in a good long while (if not EVER). There are some real treasures here, among them, a wilderness guide from 1979 written not by an enthusiastic back-to-the-land trailblazer, but by a wondrously grizzled mind capable of gems like this:

At this point, I’d like to throw in a few words about the bright blue, red, dazzling yellow, and orange fabrics used in outdoor clothing, pack bags, and tents. Millions of hikers and backpackers wearing these gaudy colors are turning the wilderness into one vast Coney Island. You look out across a magnificent forested valley. Not a sign of humans anywhere. No? Look again. Over on the far side is a trail, and suddenly you see it — a moving bright red spot, followed by another, and then another, four altogether. It looks like a line of red ants marching along single file. Your vision of the vast wilderness is ruined. Had these hikers been wearing forest green, brown, or russet clothes and packs, they would never have been seen at that distance. When you enter an established campsite, what do you find? Maybe dozens of tents so brightly colored that they practically knock your eye out. This colorful practice is a relatively new phenomenon. The old idea was to wear colors and live in tents that blended and harmonized with the greenwood. I don’t understand these brightly colored “environmentalists.” They must be colorblind!

Of course, if he’d written this today, he’d be condemned for his impolitic prejudice against the colorblind. Know that I’m reprinting this passage for stylistic and training purposes ONLY, and by no means think that the colorblind population is incapable of selecting forest-appropriate outdoor clothing.

Which is just to say, the best way to enjoy this one is on the portable music player of your choice, while skipping through a jasmine field with a ribbon in your hair.

“We’re not big on heroes, either. The concept of heroes is alien. And I think that’s a very telling piece of our national ethos – no one deserves to be better than anyone else.”

If I didn’t already secretly pine for Canada on an almost daily basis, this tips the scales to metric. And here’s another quote, which (for any Carol Shields scholars) I’d love to find in its original context and in full:

“I’m concerned about the unknowability of other people…. That’s why I love biography and the idea of the human life told or shown. Of course, this is why I love novels, too. In novels, you get to hear how people are thinking. That’s why I read fiction.”

In my (not nonexistent) experience, fiction is worth loving as it brings the reader insight into what an author must think is unknowable about people, which is often extremely dissimilar to what I find unknowable about people. But I think the gist is there.

A disclaimer: You should know that this is the story that opens the collection of the same name. You should also know that the stories in this collection, while not mutually dependent, are definitely mutually more fascinating. Which is just a tip that if this is your cuppa, you should run out and snag yourself a copy, and read every last one.

Critically and academically, it’s the opening of this story that tends to get the most attention. But there’s an incredible rhythm throughout (the magnificence of which I likely don’t give justice), and it’s the ending that really got the chills going in this reader. I’d say more, but that’d spoil it.

And for those who are here on academic assignment, you shouldn’t take this as any sort of criticism against the value or impact of the opener — listen to your teachers or professors. The opening is worth study. But listen through to the end (yes, it’s almost an hour long).

It also makes prominent use of the word GALUMPH, a word that doesn’t see nearly as much usage as it deserves. Coincidentally, when out for a woodsy walk this morning, my co-perambulator noticed a set of tracks in the snow and noted that they likely belonged to “something large, galumphing.” And following so closely on the heels of my reading, left me all kinds of tickled. So we walked on, me in galumph-appreciative reverie, and stumbled upon a dead porcupine.

I’m not sure if that was an omen or, more importantly, what it has to do with galumphing.

Now, when this was first revealed to me, my knee started jerking and I impulsively wanted to hurl out BUT WHAT ABOUT Mavis Gallant! And Morley Callaghan!! But then I realized… that’s two names out of a BUNCH, and it’s about time I do something about it. And so, welcome to Canadian Short Fiction Month… yes, beginning almost half a month behind.

For starters, I thought Mr J’s lovely comment deserved another school-age-worthy meditation courtesy of Ernest Buckler.

And next? Send me the Canadian authors you’d have me read, and I’ll see how many I can get in. And if there are other groups under-represented, you should send them too. You can leave a comment, as always, or email me at miette (@) miettecast (.) com. The more you send, the more I’ll try to read this month, even with a throat full of (audibly detectable?) mucus. Deal? For Canada!

Now, I don’t have that intimate a history with these candies, but I know they’ve been around for a while, and evidently the endearments have changed over the years. But GET REAL and GOT CHA seem more for bleeding hearts, not those of the more sugary variety, and I wondered if someone in the candy factory was trying to tell me something.

Which didn’t stop me from eating the entire bag. Or thinking that had Zukofsky gotten a job coming up with things to print on candied hearts, I’d probably eat a bag every day.

The idea involved all these made-up memoirs floating about these days, and what a shame it is that they all have to be disparaged, refunded, yanked from shelves or production processes, and so on, especially in times of economic struggle. The idea is to take a fraction of the shelves of the Memoir section at your local bookstore, and refashion them into an entirely new genre: the Memwasn’t. Or the Fauxmoir. Whatever. The name’s beside the point.

But, think it over. It can be an inspiring game for authors, coming up with the most sensational, most unbelievably believable fake memoir imaginable. And at some point, there will be more and more of these books, and maybe no shortage of great ones, and people will be ardently buying and reading them, and the language will evolve and what we know as Fiction will be known as Memwasn’t (or whatever), and we can have stimulating arguments about Literary Fauxmoirs vs Genre Fauxmoirs, and we’ll all be happy again, and rolling in no shortage of books.

So there you have it, for any underemployed marketing brains just waiting for an idea to get you back in the game. All I want’s a credit at your awards speech. And to read all your fake memoirs… make em scandalous.

Because we can reminisce about all these things, or read lines like this and put our hands up in admission of the ageless:

“It’s about as real a smile as girls can do for each other, considering we don’t practice real smiling every day, you know…”

That’s pretty good, right? Happy wintertime.

So maybe instead you should just sit back, undo the button on your bluejeans (but, uh, not in -that- way) and have a quiet listen.

The problem is, as you may have heard, money in my country is not worth very much these days and table-benches are beyond my budget, and while there’s a new president whose first order of business, as you may have heard, will be to give me a new hybrid table-bench, I know better than to rely on economies and politics, and I went and gathered what I needed to fashion it myself.

Now, I’m not the handiest of people, and I’m actually fairly dangerous when put in front of power tools and sharp edges and, you know, screws and such, but I built the damned thing, which grew increasingly complicated from the initial idea of Top and Legs, to include such delicate bench-like features as Rabbited Feet and Lots of Slatted Inserts and Dependence on Measurements, and no shortage of other over-ambitious features for an unhandy sort. But it’s built. It’s wonky as all-hell, and if you’re ever over at my house and I invite you to sit on it, it can probably be safely said that I’m not your biggest fan. But it’s built– it’s my civic duty to let you all know that, wonkily or not, I’ve done my civic duty. And now it’s time to sit back and read more stories.

But that said, I’m happy to take your vote on what our young heroine saw beneath the quilt. A hint: I’m pretty sure it was not, in fact, an elephant.

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.

And since I’ve received permission to read this to you (for sometimes, it just doesn’t hurt to ask), it’s time to summon the unprecedented, and strongly recommend your immediate purchase and ardent reading of the collection in which today’s story is found.

So here you are, the result of a page opened at random from the book grabbed at random from Miette’s Short Story Collection Shelf.

That said, for the most part, what we have here may or may not be available online, as they are plucked at whimsy from Miette’s Own Library, but for those who find Usefulness in reading along, sometimes you can. By request, some hot Saki.

And so, until now unprecedented in the history of Miette and Her Bedtime Stories, consider yourself presented with an entirely re-recorded story, for your listening pleasure.

And yes, even twice-over, I couldn’t come anywhere near decent troubled-urban-youth accents. Which you may consider a laugh. At my happy and grateful expense.

Everything 99 Cents or Less… And Up.

And with that, one more of life’s little desires is ticked off the to-do. And for our next trick, Soviet Social Satire!

Moths drink the tears of sleeping birds

Which is fine, so long as they stay far away from these brackish ducts.

For starters, Charles Willeford, of today’s story, frequently set works in Florida, and without being a Florida’s-my-bag sort, he invoked the sticky filth of sweat and exposure to fake everything and always-heated flesh as well as anybody. Another Florida writer, Douglas Fairbairn, writes with the same virtuosistic reverence for, YES, the tree squirrel.

You see? It’s like that Kevin Bacon game, only with rodents.

I’m willing to offer two dollars, then, one if you can prove you know tonight’s story before hearing it here, and another if you offer up a valid way to prove you did.

Which makes me think that whomever was responsible for penning these blurbs must’ve taken a gripe with Brentano, had unsettled family debt, or was the progeny of the next husband of this hysterical woman, or had had a very bad day. And it also makes Yourstruly a full-blooded Brentano sympathizer.

Believe me? I suppose you don’t have to.

In all seriousness, the trick, inasmuch as there is one, is to come up for air every few minutes. It’s not unlike when you were a teenager, petting and smooching while on innocent movie theatre dates. This can be all shades of fun, until you find yourself turning purple and panting for the wrong reasons. So, it’s not a matter of making love to the microphone, as much as it is trying to sloppily fondle around the obstruction of an r-rated armrest. Just take it slowly and breathe steadily.

Is there a real answer in here somewhere? I hope so.

And so, here is what I hope is the full-length, uncut, unexpurgated, absolute, and intact version of the Scarlet Ibis. I hope. It may take Mr. Hurst himself to convince me otherwise, but enjoy!

But I promise you, my dears, if this The Joke was a bag of prepackaged organic baby spinach, you’d all be sick, not from bacteria, but from overindulging on its goodness. Enjoy.

This morning, while walking my dog past the top-secret bottling facility, a man driving a forklift full of cases of red stripe beer had evidently just taken a too-sharp turn, or landed in a pothole, or had been drinking too much of his cargo, because his forklift was parked and in front of it was a river of freshly flowing beer from freshly broken bottles. And while this might seem a good dream to many people, myself included sometimes, actually, it wasn’t the most satisfying pool to wade in at nine in the morning. I share this with you now only so that, in this regard at least, you might better separate the dream from the reality. So remember: a river of beer by any other name… isn’t easy on the olfactories.

And it gave me an idea. Indulge me a minute. Place your left thumb on the icon at the top of one of those ear-buds (either one is fine). (Come on, please? It’d make me so very happy.)

(Did you do it? Come on, just for a second)

This is where I was going to make a joke about determining the perfect podcast for you today based on some thumb-in-earbud analytics software that I whipped up in Javascript, but I think you probably get it by now. Either because you’re brilliant, or because I can’t compose a joke. In any event, tonight’s story fits all.

I’m sure by now you know what I’m talking about. And I’ll say this: I’m not going anywhere near that solar system again until you bring Pluto back. I mean it.

Until then, here is today’s story if you want to read it in French.

– cutting teeth on Conrad and Dostoevsky
– picking up the necessities of verbal communication with Wilde and Wodehouse
– and now, sleeping in Big Kids Bed and breaking themselves from thumbsucking thanks to Descartes and Machiavelli.

Really, they do what I do here, only without so much swearing, and with a little more patience. Go wish them the best birthday to-date, as I do, from this humble squat of senescence. Here’s to toddling!

Rather than answer the question directly (because what’s the use of renting one’s own outdoor space if not to desultorily blather around or plant cobwebbish morning glories around it?), I thought I would instead give you insight into the metrics, processes, and rationale behind today’s selection. Steel yourselves:

I had been thinking about Peru. For no other reason than thinking about most places lately is just too depressing; it was a random thought. Peru. Nothing special, and nothing more than that. I then decided that I fancied reading to you, and since Peru was freshly ground on my bean, a Peruvian (also purveyors of mightyfine beans, to extend the metaphor) would do. Palma came to mind, and I naturally reached for Peruvian Traditions, which is magnificent. But then instead remembered this story, a story so great and with a title so clever that had it not been a work of fiction, it might be an urban children’s toy or an instant indy rock classic. And so it was decided.

Does that answer the question? Enjoy!

But it wasn’t easy! There’s surprisingly little to be found, even less in English, which meant there was even more legwork involved on this end to satisfy my personalitic, and now, snapping out of the fury, I regretfully inform you that a few minutes has become two hours. Admittedly, I do know marginally more than I did (whew), and behold!

So, self-satisfaction aside, who can tell me how to quell the urge to googliate everything that dares to cross the mind? Surely I’m not alone with this problem. Is this what they call a Cry For Help?

I want you to know, in short, that what you are about to hear I have not heard. Which means that you (and I mean every last one of you) are basically the first person to hear this. Unless you’re here because someone’s told you to come here to listen to Wolfgang Borchert. And if you’ve got friends giving you tips like that, well wow, hold tight to them, or introduce them to me. And if you’re my friend reading this, I didn’t mean that: I would never swap you for some stranger just because that person knows Borchert. Honest.

Talking chimps bring us one step closer to reading chimps. And it’s just the tiniest step from chimps that can read to chimps that can podcast bedtime stories.

Today, the great Mavis Gallant, with a deep tip of hat in Hugh’s direction.

Exceptional request, absolutely and with much pleasure:

But it has been asked, and as you well know, I’m either more than happy to comply with requests, or a peerless sucker. Go ahead and ask me to read the next one standing on my head.

Now, back to melting the iced bath.

Or, maybe this will hold you over? You’ll hear from me soon…

The truth is, I haven’t yet read Gogol for only one reason, though it’s a valid one: I fear if I started, I wouldn’t be able to stop. Gogol is that close to the cuffs. And much as I love him, this is not Gogol’s Bedtime Story Podcast. It’s Miette’s. And she’s evidently a little protective.

But you’re right. Gogol should be here, so here it will be. And it’s long, long enough that my throat hurts, long in the hope that thirst for Gogolic podcasting might be quenchable. I suppose we’ll find out soon enough. After all, I’m the King of Spain.

But! There will be NO phoning your mother until you’ve cleaned your plate and listened to this:

[And yes, I'm aware that that's one mighty long sentence, but it was a mighty long thought. Stay with me.]

I mention this only because it’s remarkable to me that someone could be brought on as the FIXER and produce what he did. It’s like building a rocket out of spiral ring binder scraps and spit, and not just ending up with a functional rocket, but a time-warping, human-transporting, beam-me-to-the-sunning Rocket of Tomorrow. And I don’t wax with simile very often, so when I do, you know it’s one that gets me excited. So I was mightily pleased to stumble on tonight’s story.

Is it like playing Mozart (or is it Brahms) to your unborn child? And do we know if tissues that are cultured while listening to literature podcasts turn out to be overachieving supertissues in much the same way? Have I revealed a consummate ignorance on tissue cultures yet, or mentioned that this is about the coolest thing I’ve heard of someone doing while listening to a podcast? And that the enthusiasm is sincere (though admittedly, maybe in part due to that ignorance I keep going on about?) Anyhow.

[*eh, you might be completely confounded over the nature of this little manic rave– see these comments or just listen:

Welcome to one of those times, a sit-up-and-check-yourself, world-premiere, excitable Miettevent. Enjoy.

You know what we need to ponder questions such as these? That’s right– a little Strindberg.

* I have never been married to a guy named Mario, but I wouldn’t rule it out. Which is just a disclaimered way of saying I have nothing “against” the name Mario; it was just an example. Marios are great. Honestly.

The equally obvious answer: well, I’d rather not get sued during holy week. Not for this, anyhow. And besides, this allows me to thrust two writers on you at once, and chances are you know who Beckett is, but could use a little familiarity with Weidman, whose first name is a Saint and last is suitably Jewish to satisfy all of our celebratory needs for the coming days. So: listen to Weidman now, then go read Beckett.

Trivia for you: when Beckett was born, a hundred years ago today, it was Good Friday and Friday the Thirteenth.

And sincerely, to those in celebratory ways, my wishes for happiest of Passover, Easter, Beckett’s Birthday, etc.

Please let it be known that what you have heard (or will be hearing) is not the consequence of product placement– after all, I don’t think a company would pay me to say that its product was made from pigs’ lips, or whatever I said. And along those lines, please let it be known that the product is not really made from pigs’ lips (or at least, I don’t think it is). It was a figure of speech, not meant to be taken seriously as indicator of the product’s ingredients, and not even my guess as to the product’s ingredients. In fact, please note that I have no opinion of that product whatsoever, and would never encourage, nor discourage, its consumption.

Whew.

I would like to recommend “The Yellow Wallpaper” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. It has to be my favorite short story… no matter how many times I read it it still gives me the chills!

To which Miette replies: your wish, my command, and about those chills, have you ever tried to read it aloud? It’s utterly skin-crawling. Of course, I’ve already read the Virginia Woolf story with a similar (though not -quite- as resplendent with crawling-skin heebies) narrative structure.

I was just the other day staring at the ceiling in my own bedroom, and could’ve sworn it was comprised really of thousands of cats, trying to escape the two-dee flatlands of the ceiling. And while at the time I attributed that vision to… the detritus of some decisions of my youth … given the evidence put forth by Woolf and Gilman, I’m in pretty good company for textured wall hallucinations. Anyone else ever stare at their walls until they go stereoscopic?

Basically, my dear friends, I was so charged during this reading, and especially during the play-by-play of the boxing match, that I discovered a latent desire from deep within my psyche. I want to be a sportscaster.

Don’t laugh; I don’t want to do it forever, not as metier, not as my life’s ambition. But once, for one match or game, of any sort. And so I offer you this as a service, free-of-charge: let me lend my voice to your son’s little league or your niece’s diving meet, and you’ll be satisfying a very real need for me. I’ll probably need a bit of coaching on the rules of the sport before we get started, but I’m a quick learner and a pro at “winging it.” If you’re in the area and can help, think about it. You’d be satisfying Miette’s most hidden desire — how much is that worth to you?

it’s a scary one. Frightful! It might cause you to go to sleep with all the lights on, and even then, you might suffer nightmares. You might find yourself short of breath, or you might get jumpy when a rat rustles a garbage can while you’re walking the dog in the middle of the night. In fact, you know the warning signs on roller coasters? Same rules apply here– you shouldn’t listen if you have high blood pressure, epilepsy, don’t like roller coasters, or are under four feet tall. For the rest, to further simulate the experience, why don’t you wait for two hours prior to listening, then after 45 seconds, throw your arms in the air and scream. It’s -that- scary.

And now, don’t say I didn’t warn you, because I just did!

I relay this to you now not for sentimental chicken-soup-for-the-mass-transit-soul reasons, but because, immediately after my heart was warmed by a rare and fleeting moment of solidarity among strangers, I thought “damn, if only I could have podcasted that.”

And I didn’t (podcast that). But John Collier might be the next best thing.

It’s like an eponymous spoonerism, but maybe a little light on the spoony bits. Specifically, in the story, the title character is an obnoxious, bratty, trouble-making, foot-stamping boar of a kid, and so, to the other characters, “making a Charles” became a token turn-of-phrase for anybody’s obnoxious, bratty, trouble-making, foot-stamping boarish action. The young people these days might lean toward “pulling a …” (as in, “I really pulled a Miette yesterday, charmed the socks right off the world itself,” or, the day before yesterday, it might’ve been “you so pulled a Miette just then– that’s the most ridic thing I’ve ever heard. ” )

In any event, in my world of endless potential projects, I’ve been fantasizing about creating a sort of dictionary, cataloguing all the actions I associated with people I know– it’d be a panegyric, really, to my people, so that I might eventually come up with a new abstruse colloquial vocabulary. I might say, for instance, “Yesterday I Jasoned a Frederick and had a Juniper while Ronning an Ashley,” with each name representing something very specific and particular and well-defined in my own terms. And you think you can’t understand what I’m saying now, just you -wait-.

And you know, I never thought it would happen, but I’m actually a little jealous, surprisingly enough. All the indulgent coddling, the massaging fingers running through the hair, the relaxing aromatherapeutic lavenders… why am I not a part of this??

I’ve decided that tomorrow, then, I will personally treat her to a pedicure and an exfoliating facial. Then we’ll be even.

(For Pablo in Argentina (thank you for possibly the kindest email ever sent this way…))

– podcast in Estonian
– serialise a novel (eh, a short one)
– go back to a very low-tech setup, maybe not using a microphone at all, maybe just screaming and telling you all to lean your heads out your windows at the same time.
– on-screen accompaniment of the text
– sell out commercially and insert product placement for leading beverage companies into the stories
– create an interpretive dance troupe based on the content of these podcasts

You see? We’ve so much distance yet to travel together. Fun!

This is PART TWO (part 1 below)

Valerie, Sebastien, Scott, Philip, Miette, Marc, Jen, Hugh, Heidi, Dream, Ben, and Alex’s Bedtime Story PodCAST.

But what I got back from my various requests, at all sorts of sound levels and all levels of craziness (at least, auditorily speaking), a veritable catalogue of every variety of background buzz, white noise, and telephony thrum… well, it’s rather perfect (or so I think, and I’m the lord of this podcast, so that’s the law here.)

Of course, very few of my lovely readers have voices that might be mistaken for mine, but otherwise: there are glasses clinking, there are sirens, from time to time there’s an inner-ear-awakening pop, there’s a dog barking, and there’s even a classic Miette moment (patent-pending) of a lost-page expletive (thank you; it made my day). And while the unedited transitions between variance of white noise may be jarring, if you listen a little more closely, perhaps it will be for you like it is for me, approximating the feeling of being told a bedtime story by a dozen crazy uncles and aunts, the kind who let you watch horror movies and eat pancakes for dinner.

Alex, Ben, Dream, Heidi, Hugh, Jen, Marc, Miette, Philip, Scott, Sebastien, and Valerie’s Bedtime Story PodCAST

But okay: it’s got all this great stuff, my new headphone recording device, but probably most importantly, it’s… are you ready … it’s HANDS-FREE! Do you have any idea what this means to me?! I can sip tea, I can turn pages, I can smash a cabbage and create new sound-effects-driven worlds (I wouldn’t dare), and I’m afraid I’m going to start demanding that other things in my life are hands-free. I mean, they’re my hands, and for those minutes, they were truly and unequivocally free… FREE! I don’t claim to know much, but take it from me and free your own hands for a few minutes– it’s terrific.

But all this reminded me of Morley Callghan, the Canadian spitfiring writer who regularly and famously boxed with Hemingway with Fitzgerald in the French Judge role of timekeeper. And if you don’t know about this landmark event in literary history, and you want to, you might benefit from clicking that link up there to a CBC profile, because I won’t repeat it all here.

And then that got me thinking: I’m not much for violent athletics, of course, but what if my colleagues in the land of literary podcasting got together for some friendly sporting matches? Could I beat the beloved Mister Ron in a tennis tournament? Who would win if I took to water polo with the Librivoxers? With Kaseumin, I don’t know, I envision a heated round of beach volleyball, because really: have you ever seen those women?! And eighty years from now, who knows, maybe they’d still be talking about the legacy born of the frenetic bobsledding competition between me and Scoot. That’s right, I am, as they say, ready to rumble.

Just go easy on me.

Podcasters and/or storytellers among you might be familiar with the feeling from the discovery of a new story, or from finding yourselves absolutely ensconced in it while you’re reading it, to the point where you forget you’re reading it until you look up from the last word to see the microphone in front of you. It’s the sort of experience whereby, if you’re from certain regions, you might let out an enthralling Oh My Gawd (optionally punctuated with “Y’all”).

But I don’t mean to be elitist! You don’t need to be a podcaster to know what I’m talking about… you might know it from an act of… say… oh, I don’t know… a good kiss, perhaps?

So, I pick it up, haul it home, no problem, then start unloading it, and discover that my socks are missing. My socks! Missing! Every last one of them! I continue to put away everything else, immediately resigned to my own imminent sockless fate, trying to imagine a life without socks, and when I go to put a pillowcase in the closet, I notice that it’s much lumpier than it typically is. Behold. The new place tucks socks away in pillowcases, evidently.

The experience reminded me of today’s story, for reasons that will become obvious soon enough. The lesson: when in a foreign laundrette, do as the foreign launderers do.

How did this get started?
It was supposed to be a joke; I published the first episode in Movable Type without knowing what I was doing, and of course before you know it pings get sent out, trackers get propagated, people start listening, and I can’t stop. Then, because I’m a little compulsive, I became somewhat addicted.

Why addicted? Do you love yourself that much?
No more so than any other woman as attractive and dazzlingly brilliant as I am. Additionally, don’t forget that stories existed before there was written language to capture them, and besides, oral storytelling is a fast dying art, one that forces you to slow down, to pay attention, to recapture forgotten languages, to pay homage to ways in which words can be delivered, and to meditate on a word, or a phrase, or a whole story. I talk a little more about this in the first episode. But mostly, yes, I love myself that much.

You’ve been going on for almost a year four years now. Are you going to stop any time soon?
Get lost! At the moment, I quite love reading these stories aloud, as in doing so I look at them more astutely than I do when I arbitrarily and quickly plough through a collection of short fiction. And since I don’t plan to stop that any time soon, I don’t know why I’d stop reading them into a microphone and sharing them with you.

Aren’t some of these stories under copyright? How are you getting away with this?
My absolute greatest hope for this podcast is that you might be introduced (or re-introduced) to a new writer or two, and, when that introduction has been made, you’ll rush out and buy that writer’s books.

I hear a dog barking on some of your podcasts. What kind is it? Why don’t you edit that out?
That’s two questions.
Oh yea. What kind of dog is that?
A girl dog. She sheds an awful lot. She doesn’t bark all that much, and I’m not quite sure why she always wants to do so while I’m recording; I think it’s her way of trying to contribute.

That question a few questions up? About copyright? Well, you didn’t really answer it at all.
Huh, funny that.

Why do the quality of some recordings sound even worse than others?
When I got started, I was recording using an iTalk straight into my iPod (the sound engineering equivalent of reading into an old cassette recorder in a football stadium), and living on a very busy street. These days, I’ve improved the recording technology (but only just a little) and live in a much quieter space. In general, I should hope that the quality continues to improve with time. But I make no promises here, and as a rule, would rather spend time reading than sound geeking. Still, I’m open to suggestion.

Are there other podcasts that involve other people reading to me?
Why yes there are; those I know of and listen to can be found on the right side of this page, under the header of the (perhaps rather obtusely titled) “Other People Who Will Read To You.” If you’re looking for more, you might also try this new site I’ve heard about. It’s called Google.

Why don’t you edit it out when your dog barks / phone rings / email beeps / postman twice rings?
Because if I were reading you a story from across the room, or in bed, or over the telephone, or on the sofa, or anywhere else in the atom-based world, and the dog barked, well, we wouldn’t edit that out, would we?

Will you read (x story) by (x author)?
Probably. I do have a few parameters that I use in deciding what to read, but I do take requests, and fulfill on most of them. Ask me and we’ll see. If I don’t own the story, you may have to send me a copy.

Can I read something for your podcast?
Possibly. The rules here are slightly more strict (you need to be a damned good reader), but again, get in touch and we’ll see. There is the occasional reading here that I didn’t make, always by damned good readers.

You keep saying “get in touch” but you never publish your email. What the hell?
That’s what I say, “What the hell?” each time the spammers catch on to a new email address. But try your luck with miette at this domain.

Where do you live? Where are you from? Is that a (Midlands / Yorkshire / Scottish / Kansas / Indonesian) accent?
That’s three questions, but I’ll take care of them all: None of your business. You should be more interested in the biographies of authors whose stories are being read here anyhow.

How do you make money off this?
About two pennies per year. Not enough to pay the bills, but enough for a doctor’s visit in Europe.

Okay. But can I pay you a truckload of money to promote my company in your podcasts?
Get. In. Touch.

Why’d you choose this particular story to be immemorialised with your Frequently and Infrequently Asked Questions?
Because my author index is filling out well, but still y-less, until now. And Steven suggested Yates (and thank you for it!) as a way to nip that problem.

God, are you going to blather away forever? Will you stop with the questions and get on with today’s reading already?
Your wish, my command:

The answer: When that new book includes short fiction from Zamiatin, Zweig, Zantner, and Zugsmith.

The explanation: As Miette’s Bedtime Story Podcast inches ever-closer to its 100th episode (I can hear your audible gasps!), I look at my index page, to make sure that I’m being somewhat diverse in my selection. Many different styles, from different ages, different castes, cultures, ethnicities, genders, and so on. Well, not “many” different genders, just two, but still. The catalogue is filling itself nicely, actually, and I’m pretty proud of this.

But what I’m not proud of, what I can’t live with, and what bothers me more than unbitable hangnails, is the gross underrepresentation of certain letters. Look at H; I used to think H was underrepresented. Sure, Hemingway’s there, but there’s more to H than Hemingway. More distressing, however, is what happens at the end of the alphabet. I’ve got an image to maintain– do you really think I want people thinking I’m x-ist? That I’m biased toward B! That it has anything to do with anything other than issues of letter frequency?

So, in addition to the new book, which is fantastic in itself, Z has a voice at long last.

A cry for help: I’ve only a handful left until the hundredth. Any idea what might fill in those gaps? (Including that “U;” “Unknown” hardly needs more recognition.)

“Romanse [sic] is the death of enlightenment”

And I walk by this utility pole every day, and have made all sorts of teleological, phenomenological, and epistemological assessments of what this might mean, as well as just thinking about it sometimes. (It doesn’t make much sense! After all, enlightenment trumps death. And if you’ve gotten there, you’ve surpassed the need for romanse [sic] Or at least, I think so, but who understands all that anyhow?). But tonight, I think I get it! It’s not a misspelling of “romance” at all! They’re talking about FRENCH NOVELS (“romans”), which must be particularly girly if the affected feminine -e is suffixed at the end. Or, in other words, “french chick lit is the death of enlightenment.” Which makes sense, teleologically, phenomenologically, AND the rest of it. And so I offer you Bernard Malamud, not french and most decided not chick-littish.

SPACE MILK!?

Why had I not been offered Space Milk? What was Space Milk? Is it anything like what those fellas took straight-from-the-statue in A Clockwork Orange? Does it prevent against disease? Would it have prevented the suffering now endured by the nether regions of the topmost area of the inside of my mouth?

I’ll probably never know what it is. I’ll probably never know of its mouth-warming ambrosial effect. But I can have friends who are capable of writing songs that are somewhat peripherally related to Space Milkiness, and I can exploit all of this right here, just for you.

– I will really really do all those things I meant to do in 2005, including those things in 2005 I was really really going to do after neglecting in 2004.
– Ditto 2003.
– When thinking of these podcasts, I’ll follow at least three of the Dalai Lama’s instructions, and be better off for it. (Though that one about silence; I’m doubting I can do much with that one.)
– Oh, that one last thing from the 2002 list, I’ll do that too.
– Miette’s Bedtime Story Podcast will be noticed by the recording industry, complete a series of sold-out stadium tours, and have mashups produced interlacing these stories with the lyrics of dead rockstars. I will donate proceeds to libraries and digital audio archival efforts, and maybe have a little party.
– I will get around to satisfying the few outstanding story requests, and maybe even take new ones (leave requests in comments or email to miette (at) this domain).
– Miette’s Bedtime Story Empire will start Podcasting in 64 languages, then become the subject of a minor politics-or-drugs scandal which will only increase its popularity and prove its longevity.
– And maybe even this site will get a redesign.

Stay tuned, be happy and prosperous, and check back next year to see how much of this happens.

All the best,
Miette

And if your name is Fielding Dawson? Who can say? Just one wad of spare triviatum, delivered your way.

And let it be known that Miette’s Bedtime Story Podcast has a strict policy against eulogising, lecturing, or otherwise making demands of its listeners, but if you know what’s good for you, you’ll exercise regularly, live and love harmoniously, stop smoking, eat plenty of fresh fruit, listen to Brahms in the morning and Mahler before bed, and otherwise keep your ears clean and your mind sharp. Or, if you need a shortcut, read Sheckley.

New York Times Obit:
Robert Sheckley, Writer of Satirical Science Fiction, Is Dead

And then I shuddered with enough ferocity to send beads of ice crystalled cold sweat from my brow and thought: I know what I need to get me in the holiday spirit– a glass of warm milk, a stocking by the fireplace, and just a little Teutonic Gothic Horror.

Also, I should add: thanks to the wonders of technology (and the marvels of good taste), my friends at IncipitBlog offer a reading from Vian’s L’Arrache Coeur in its original French (in English: Heartsnatcher). Francophiles, francophones, and francophonicians take note.

And so I made this discovery just a few minutes ago, that I’d read the story exactly ten years ago, and I thought “well, isn’t that sort of neat! I’ll read it again, and see if the bildungsroman chapter of my life has at least turned a page or two in the past decade!”

The answer is to be written down in a journal somewhere to be discovered in ten years’ time. But the story, dear listener, is all yours.

Darling Listeners

Thought Id try an experiment and read something that was obviously designed to be read on the page and not delivered aloud bedtimestorily. But after that bit in Bookforum I’m just so v. curious how all these things sound you see, goodness how sad, and you’ll just have to indulge me.

Not sure if it will work, this one, whether it will come across or not at all but if it doesn’t well then that’s what the next podcast is for Yes? No? Never bought shawl in life. Maybe just have listen and we’ll see what we think. You, not me. xxx

BUT!

Leave it to National Geographic to dispel the soporific effects of these turkey dinners you so crave. All these years, and you meateaters have been faking it!? Does this only happen in the presence of nonmeateaters?

In other words, I’m onto you. So next year, rather than holding up the charade, why not dose off naturally, organically, bedtimestorily?

Or, listen, if this was The Two Faces of Miette’s Bedtime Story Podcast, this would be the moment just before Joanne Woodward puts on that smokey dark voice and her eyes glaze over and she’s suddenly Eve Black talking about sailors and boozing.

In other words, not only am I not podcasting a story this time, but I’m giving you more Fitzgerald. What can I say? He’s the writer so nice he has to be read twice, that’s him.

But I warn you: It’s serious business, grownup stuff, this time around. If you want a nice light bedtime story, I’ve got em in spades, never fear.

But today’s, serious. Rather than give much further elucidation of this plaintive essay written for Esquire in somber post-flapper days, this person has the facts and history. I’m just the reader.

——-
** I mean old CDs, the kind we bought for, like, fifteen, twenty dollars, with music ALREADY burnt onto it, and a booklet with the lyrics sometimes printed on it or nice glossy photos, and it only held AT MOST fifteen songs or so, ‘member?

Even though it was a bit of an elbow-ribbing, request-speaking, this one picked up my mood considerably. I couldn’t read it without cracking once or thrice — if you can do better while listening, let me know and the next request is yours. If you can’t, don’t let me know, just listen to this as proof that Fitzgerald will always be funnier than you, crackups and all.

I’ve never been one to appreciate traditional dream analysis, but have fun with it if you want. The Squash? The illegal pepper sauce? Poisoned breath? I share it because it begs to be shared, which is, of course, the same reason I read stories to the Internet. Like this one:

And your mind, it wouldn’t be wrong in saying that. If I had to guess — and I’m not a very good guesser, BUT, if I did, I’d imagine you’ve probably gotten used to my voice by now. Maybe grown to expect it? And if I did convince you that THIS was my new-and-ill-begotten voice, well, then you’d be a sucker.

And, dear listener, if there’s one thing I know about you after all these months reading to you, it’s that you’re no sucker.

And so I confess: it is not my voice on this podcast, for my throat has been feeling like it does after I give it a Raw Tree Bark Massage and a bath in Freshly Burnt Gasoline Fumes. In such cases, what’s a girl to do, then, but exploit a poor sucker… err… a most generous, willing friend. And so tonight, let us all give thanks to dream smith, whose retelling of Isherwood leaves me, well, speechless, more-or-less. (And while I’m guilty of a simple pun, it’s true: he’s just that good.)

Enjoy dream smith as much as I do; Miette will be back, in the flesh voice, after a couple of convalescent days. Thank you dream.

Fortunately, I discovered an easy way to take care of this problem. Thank you for the request. Request granted, problem solved. (Whew) Now who’s next?

Love Jack London?

Not getting enough of either today?

Don’t fear, Librivox is here.

(Which is just a plug for the fine goings on there, among which just might be your own Miette, with a few other fine folk, reading the full text of London’s Call of the Wild. Should you not get your fix from today’s podcast alone, this should do you. Do have a listen… you might even find Miette on other recordings; I guess you’ll just have to listen to them all.)

Meanwhile…

Instead I’m spent, and woke up wondering if I’d become an axolotl, only one with scratchy voice and ringing ears and creaky hipjoints. And how could I think such a thing and not read about it, axolotllic voice notwithstanding.

Also, I went and caught a bit of a seasonal headcold, just for this podcast, just so that it might sound more authentic. And because of the natural temperament of Podcastresses with Headcolds, you might note that the dog became possessed for an instant, that I forgot to turn the phone off, that I stammer more than I otherwise might have, maybe even (it could be a fevered delusional memory) live commentary on what I was reading… and that I don’t have the mettle to edit it at all.

Keep writing and I’ll keep tweaking. Miette can satisfy all the people all the time, it’s true.

And so today, with this podcast, I introduce Much Better Software, with features that include several bars representing channels and things, and those bars, while I’m reading, they move with my voice, which indicates something marginally more sophisticated than I’ll ever admit to knowing about.

Does it sound any better? Maybe a little? Maybe compression ruins the clarity that I tried so hard to achieve? There’s much podcasting fun to come, requests here (and if you have a request, send it), promises to friends to be fulfilled there. But who wants to hear all this? Point is: Miette’s Bedtime Story Podcast Now Features Sliding Bar Recording Software! What’s next a jingle??

(One can hope)

Woo! Two fresh short story collections I’d forgotten all about… this’ll put the spice back into my podcast. Surely there’s got to be something in here, something new for the fine listeners, something to shake it up. Ah, Buzzati, well all right, this’ll do… I only barely recall him, but I can pull this off. You know, I’m not even going to bother reading this first; I’ve so much to do today. Nice title, good name. Oh, magical realism, I’m keen on that, this is a voice I can settle into, damn, HOLY CRAP for I would never say “holy crap” though it’s not beyond inner monologue this is the sort of dry urban satire that leaves lesser men with holes in their head. This is perfect, utterly fantastic- I wish I could stop to take a note to read it again more carefully. Why am I podcasting now and not at the bookstore taking all the Buzzati I can find? Wonder which bookstore is going to have some Buzzati in stock? Egad, did I just pause in the reading, shit, I don’t remember, there’s too much going on here, but I’ve got to finish this story already, oh if only I could be taking dictation of these thoughts right now. If nothing else, I have nothing better this day with which to preface the podcast, so this will do, right?

But since I can’t transcribe these thoughts, I should just that it’s been a Very Exciting Half Hour inside these walls.

Now, I don’t know from where in the hinterlands of my thick skull one might find the little sliver of grey matter responsible for such subconscious patter, but I’d be tempted to try this someday. Maybe not forever, and not on reality television, no, maybe not. I probably couldn’t even be tempted to go a full day, I don’t think. But maybe for a couple of hours? One day (maybe).

My Odeo Channel (odeo/8a9a5647e9565eea)

Cadenza, the Italian word for cadence, is the name given to an unaccompanied bravura passage introduced at or near the close of a movement as a brilliant climax, particularly in solo concertos of a virtuoso character where the element of display is prominent.

I hope you’ve appreciated this sharing of knowledge as much as I’ve enjoyed sharing it with you.

No?

Neither do I. Wicked, right? Very exciting, indeed. So much so that we don’t want to spoil it by raising our voices, right?

It’s me, Miette– I’m excited, silly listener. You see, in the insuppressible excitement of putting books in boxes for an upcoming move, I found, surprisingly dust-free and hidden behind a small stack, a volume of Rilke prose! That’s right– this excites me. My move may be delayed, of course, as I had to STOP EVERYTHING and make sure this moment was immediately podcasted. You see how committed I am to you?

To: fair listeners
From: Miette
Re: the random audible aspiration to be heard in this podcast

Please do excuse the random audible aspiration to be heard in this podcast full stop Some stories do excite me so, and sometimes I find myself nearly swallowing the microphone full stop Honest full stop I didn’t notice until it was nearly over but perhaps the effect will suit you and the story and reading as well full stop

Didn’t think so. Enjoy!

Can you believe this has digressed to a polemic about the weather? Me neither. But there are always the stories…enjoy. Meanwhile I will put an air conditioner on my wishlist, and spare us all.

Oh yes, if you laugh at my garbling of Norwegian names, I will eat you.

Triviatum: This from a college short story anthology, with notations, footnotes, the works. There’s one worth noting– when the doctor reveals his Christian name, ‘Trifon,’ we see footnote #10, which reads:

Trifon is roughly the equivalent of “Cuthbert.”

So I’ve learned something new today, and I hope you did too.

But no, instead this mind thinks, naturally, that there are places even hotter. Which leads this mind, naturally, to think of New Orleans, for one. Which then leads it to think of times when New Orleans isn’t at all hot, but a bastion of revelry. Except that of course February in New Orleans isn’t that any longer, except maybe for those nubile young things who, after too many plastic-cupped mudslides, mug their stuff for videocameras. But then the mind thinks of times when it probably wasn’t quite like that. And that leaves us with Dunbar.

Pump some of your air conditioning my way, would you?

(On the lengthy side so make a cuppa tea first!)

Ahh, Maksim Gorky, Maxim Gorky, Maksim Gor’kii, Maxim Gorkii, Maksim Gorki, he’ll always be Aleksei Peshkov to me.

The 49th is, of course, a notable one: it’s our last perfect square until 64, and even then, both digits won’t also be perfect squares. And, of course, it’s the last podcast of our extended youth together; next time I post, we shall be plainly geriatric. Next time you hear me, of course, my voice shall be shaking as my larynx will start to sag or do what larynxes do to show they’ve turned 50. And then you’ll return to this happy 49th podcast, again and again, wistfully remembering when we were young.

If your house is at all like mine (and let’s hope it’s not, let’s hope it’s, in fact, very little like mine, with the tangerine walls and the petting zoo and the flora and god knows what sort of fauna hidden in the balls of hair BUT), tonight you will not sleep at all, as you lie awake waiting up watching the clock tick down to Bloomsday morning and what might be waiting for you in your stockings. I, for one, have been very good all year, what with all the podcasting, and am expecting the Bloomsday elves to acknowledge this as fact.

A rare exercise in linkage for those new to Bloomsday festivities:

Wikipedia entry on Bloomsday

What I consider the definitive site on all online Bloomsday cheer.

For those in New York, you can listen to Bloomsday on Broadway on the radio or spend lots of money on tickets to watch those (much more adept at reading than your Miette) read it to you. Or maybe you’d rather listen online

The short of it, for those who can’t be bothered to follow links: listen to Joyce and drink an awful lot today.

This from Dubliners:

That said, it should be well past your bedtime. For the insomniacal among us, may this lull you softly.