The news today tells us that a respected literary journal (not to be named here) has just released a list of names they consider to be The Best Young American Novelists, and among them, a full third of these names have not yet had a novel published. And that’s kind of odd.
Listening to this one earlier, I noticed something. A noise, behind the entire story, not unpleasant, entirely, but a nuisance, distracting, and not unfamiliar. And then it hits: The dog, oft noted in these recordings, had used the moments of storytelling to enjoy an early repast. And given the fact that a) the dog lacks lips
Does the title of today’s story affect you in such a way that the person nearest you is now asking what you’re sighing about? Or maybe you rolled your eyes so far to the side that you now have a stress headache and need to refocus before reading the rest of this blurb? (If so, please, take a moment.
Do you know about Ben Hecht? I only ask because a lot of people don’t, and because as a responsible Purveyor of Fine Information I ought to clue you in, and in the interest of living up to such, I should tell you that Ben Hecht was best known to many as a screenwriter, that the same mind is to be held accountable (in some ways) for Hitchcock’s Notorious, His Girl Friday, Gone with the Wind, and Scarface, although largely in an uncredited stop-the-presses-who-can-fix-this capacity.
I know that I should be wishing some of you happy Passover, others happy Easter, others the goodliest of Fridays. But more importantly, more important than sweet Haroseth and pastel eggs and chocolate covered matzoh shaped as salty rabbits, let us not forget today’s holiday, the one hundredth anniversary of Samuel Beckett’s birth, which is deserving of thrice-leavened gilded eggshells.
I beg and implore you, dear listener: don’t be misled by the title of today’s podcast. Today’s story features neither the lovely Ms Farrow in her prime –nor- jokes about Hasidim, dental extractions, or polygamy. However, if you can recommend a story about any or all of these subjects, a cookie and a song for you.
A few blocks down from my apartment is a utility pole, and on that utility pole someone has graffitoed the following in black marker:
“Romanse [sic] is the death of enlightenment”