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

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I was thinking about the last story I read to you, and thinking it’d be nice if other events of this variety, the sort of events that are difficult to explain to small children, were similarly reimagined. And not just on a large scale, either. I’m talking about The Pulling of My Wisdom Teeth Considered … Read more

Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?

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I read in the news yesterday that television writers here in the U.S. have gone on strike, and that because of the strike, everybody’s arms are collectively thrown up in a great wide panic, because nobody knows what’s going to happen on Charmed and because there’s nobody to script the next great Wardrobe Malfunction, and this sounds like very bad news indeed and I was sorry to read it.

The Bell Tone

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At times during my podcastressing career, I have stumbled upon authors about whom I know very little, and have been fortunate to find that you, resourceful mariners of the Internet’s belly, have proven yourselves well worth your collective avoirdupois in gold and other fine metals, and for that, I thank you.

The Lady of the House of Love

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Andrea was kind enough to suggest and supply a sufficiently Halloweeny bit of ghoulishness to reconcile the setback of temporary lack of access to mine own troves. In the hopes of exponentially increasing the sympathy factor, let it be known that in addition to being without books, the chief operating offices of Miette’s bedtime have been largely internet-free for the past weeks, in what would, under normal circumstances,

The Red Room

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So listen, about today’s story, well, as you’ll know when you listen to the first minute, I’m running low on resources at the moment, tapped, so to speak, at least, until things are nice and orderlied again.

I See You Never

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Last night, I was thinking of what to write to you today while starting to doze off just prior to handing over the wheel. I woke up with one of those Holy Mother I’m Dozing Off kind of starts, and, as I was now more alert than usual during this leg of the trip, I made the sad discovery that what I’d read as the Bikini Avenue Exit was actually something far more G-Rated, and significantly less scandalous.

Fear

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