Wordy Birds

Mistress of the Vatican: The True Story of Olimpia Maidalchini, The Secret Female Pope

Original airdate: August 15, 2008

A conversation with New York Times bestselling author Eleanor Herman on her incredible true book about the secret female pope.

From www.mistressofthevatican.com:

The widowed sister-in-law of the indecisive Pope Innocent X (reigned 1644-1655), Olimpia was presumed to be the pope’s mistress.  Regardless of whether she was mistress of the pope, she certainly was mistress of the Vatican, appointing cardinals, negotiating with foreign powers, and raking in immense sums from the papal treasury.  In a church that firmly excludes women from officiating as priests, and even from marrying priests, Olimpia’s story is clearly an uncomfortable one for the Vatican.

Women camped for days in front of her house, hoping to catch a glimpse of the woman who, contrary to all social norms, ran a pope, a church, and a nation.  Envied, admired, and despised, Olimpia was a baroque rock star, belting out her song loudly on a stage of epic exaggeration.  But by the end of the seventeenth century, with new popes and new hopes, the scandal of Olimpia, which had gripped all Europe, faded and disappeared.  Long forgotten now is her bittersweet tale of power, greed, and the glory of God.

From Eleanor Herman:

“History is so fascinating that it never has to be presented in a boring way. These were flesh and blood people, just like you and me, facing war and plague, falling in love, living among splendid art and gut-wrenching poverty.  Sometimes people ask me if I plan to write novels.  And I say, with all the things that really happened, who needs to make stuff up?”

Thanks for listening.

Liz

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Redneck Boy in the Promised Land:
The Confessions of “Crazy Cooter”

Original airdate: July 25, 2008

I met with Mr. Jones and his wife Alma near the front desk of the Jefferson hotel. They could have been anyone’s parents as they stood in faded blue jeans on the marble floors in the lobby. They were expecting to do the interview down there with all of the other touristy people and were taken aback when I asked to do it in their room.

They mumbled something about “a mess” as we entered the suite. It was usual hotel disorganization: pajamas on the floor, overflowing suitcases, newspapers- nothing a microphone stand couldn’t slide out of the way.

Jones’ eyes were remarkably blue and looked at me over the top of his socked feet pitched up on the coffee table. Alma announced that she was getting in the bed. She laughed lying supine as Mr. Jones told the remarkable story of who he is, how he almost died before becoming a famous mechanic and politician. He concluded the story with very kind words about her, the love of his life and how she was the reason he was a happy man today.

We talked for over an hour. They both repeatedly asked about me and my life. I could have told them all of my problems and climbed in a suitcase to follow them home, forever.

The rest of what happened is included below.

Thanks for tuning in,

Liz

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Dear American Airlines

Original airdate: August 1, 2008

I knew I was in trouble before I stepped foot into that interview room. Women tend to respond to what they hear (or read) and I was composing flirtatious conversations with Jonathan Miles by about page four of his book. His book was fantastic and in between those hardbound covers were 150 pages of late night reading that got my interviewing psyche all juicy.

But I’m not unique. Miles seems to have that power over everyone. On-line interviews state that literary greats chisel his name on their tombstones. His first date with published writing was with the swoon-worthy “Oxford American.” Jon Hodgman talks about his mental physique in a recorded “welcome greeting” on the dearamericanairlines.com webpage. Miles turned me into a babbling mess on the microphone and I could not form a coherent sentence.

In his Cocktails Column for the New York Times he wrote:

“IDEALLY, a cocktail consumed at 4 a.m. should be transitional. It should serve as a bridge between the night that was and the morning to come, equally adept at picking you up and winding you down. It should gently prepare you for the startling pastel rays of dawn — since the sunrise, when you’ve been out all night, always seems to come as a surprise, like a pursuer you thought you had eluded. A drink at that hour should usher in thoughts of, say, pancakes. Ladies and gentlemen, crawlers of the urban predawn, I give you that cocktail…”

See what I mean? A chiseled and dreamy piece of good writing.

I’ll leave the rest of the mushy gushing to the interview. You can be embarrassed for me.

Thanks again,

Liz

Listen to the show:

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