A Letter to A.A. (Almost Anybody)

In the interest of spitting a sluicy cobwebbed thread to tie together the conversations in and around this corner of the infoweb and its earbound counterpart, I wanted to offer up one more chance to allow our space to double as the hotbed of information on the social and biological activities of the Tree Squirrel, and bring some attention to our relationship with tree squirrels.

Except for the Sickness I’m Quite Healthy Now. You Can Believe That.

Nice title, right? In my efforts to knock your socks to obscurantist skies, I’m willing to offer a dollar to the first listener who can prove he or she already knows of this story (currently in the running (BY THE WAY) for Miette’s Top Short Fiction Find of the Decade, and how’s that for a reason to listen?). And how to prove this? I don’t know.

My Bludjeon and the Bobbed White

But would you believe that I spent the last couple of weeks dedicated to trying mightily and hard to uncover the identity of tonight’s author before hurling the fruits of these findings to splat on your walls. Maybe I spent the week after mired in self-pity at having failed you… failed YOU, the Internet, whom I adore.


Another Listener has asked whether I might be kind enough to share a few words about my reading process for aspiring podcasters and podcastresses. I am, of course, always glad to share secrets, although in this case I don’t think there’s anything illuminating about it. In typical sarcastresse fashion, I could just say that it’s a matter of opening a book and opening a mouth.

The Conjurer Made Off with the Dish

If this podcast was Miette’s Themetime Story Podcast, the theme of today’s story might be ‘coming-of-age,’ or it might be ‘how to make beans in Egypt,’ or maybe it’s ‘reverence,’ or perhaps it might be nothing more than ‘how to charm the socks right off of both feet of Miette.’ Outstanding questions, answers, and requests to come, but this first for evident reasons.

The Lord Chandos Letter

Allow me now to guide you most gently out of the first week of July: those of you in America, lie on your side and listen quietly, finding pause only to burp out the last taste of your hotdogmatic overindulgences. Just focus on the voice — the beer is two days old and will make its way to the outer side of your pores eventually, I promise — and let me repeat — you are NOT going to always feel this way.

The Diary of a Madman

Ahh, so you’ve noticed that I still hadn’t read any Gogol, despite a-hundred-some readings including enough of a Russian contingency to keep a stronghold on the world weight-lifting championships for the next few centuries, and despite a story by an Italian all about Gogol, in its own peculiar way.

Gogol’s Wife

There might be times when you’re reading the newspaper and you sit up straight and say to yourself something exuberantly monologic, such as “HOLD THE PHONE, this is ACTUAL news, I need to remember where I was when I read this, which is RIGHT HERE” and then you take a mental inventory and make sure that twenty or thirty years from now, you’ll remember?