RANDA JARRAR

The two families I know who moved to Austin from New Orleans after Katrina are now moving back. My son’s classmate is moving back with her artist mom (check out some of Audra’s amazing stuff here). And my neighbors just left. One of them, a girl of about 14, was sitting on the steps outside her place and looking quite sullen, so asked her, “Aren’t you happy to go home?” She stared at me for a bit, then said, “No.” So I asked, “Do you want to stay here?” Again, she said, “No.” Then I totally understood. “You want to go somewhere else?” She nodded emphatically, and smiled.

The editor, Andy Young, writes in about

a new bilingual Arabic/English literary magazine called Meena. We are based in New Orleans and in Alexandria, Egypt, attempting to open a “port-of-entry” between the two cultures. Our first issue was printed at the same time as Hurricane Katrina nearly destroyed our city (we, the editors, live in New Orleans). But we are managing to get that one out into the world even as we work on shoring up our new issue, the theme of which is water and the city (this chosen before the event!)

Check it out, subscribe if you like what you see, and submit, especially if you have translations from Arabic.

I like to watch this when I feel crappy about not working on that novel I’m working on (plus, watching it is an act of further procrastination), and I thought I’d spread the joy…

This Sunday’s book review is a food issue, which is cool…I went to see Michael Pollan talk about food at BookPeople last week. It was only about an hour long, but it was enough to convince me to shop at local farmers’ markets. He had many insights about corn– yeah, corn– and how it’s become a huge percentage of what we eat: Americans use it to grow grass quicker; feed it to cows (whose rumens, or digestive sustems, are only used to grass), chickens, pigs, and even fish; put it in sodas and most desserts; use the starch and meal in most non-dessert carbs; fry things in it; and on and on. You can read more about it in Pollan’s newest book, The Omnivore’s Dillema, in which he “follows each of the food chains that sustain us—industrial food, organic or alternative food, and food we forage ourselves—from the source to a final meal.”

Last night, I went to a party, my second in 24 hours, and was met by a cute drunken man sitting on the front stoop. What follows is a “transcript” of what ensued.

HE: Hel-lo! What’s your name? Strawberries! Stawberry dress with strawberry shoes. You look yummy.
ME: Randa.
HE: Hi, I’m Robert.
ME: O.K. I’m going inside now.
HE: First can I wear your cherry earrings? Just hang one in my ear.

I take my earring off and loop it into his ear lobe.

HE: You’re cute.
ME: Thanks. Can I have my earring back?
HE: Not yet. Guess what my last name is?
ME: I have no idea.
HE: It’s Fagg. F-A-G-G. Fagg. I was in the Marines briefly, and they called me seaman fag.
ME: Can I have my earring back?
HE: You don’t believe me. Here.

He takes out his wallet and produces three forms of I.D. His real name is Richard A. Fagg. His license says so, his social security card says so and his…Screen Actors’ Guild card says so.

ME: You’re an actor?
HE: I try. Right now I work in security for the WB. I’m in town for the weekend.
ME: What shows do you do security for?
HE: Mostly Gilmore Girls.
ME: Shut up!

I sit down and light a cigarette.

HE: …
ME: What’s Lauren Graham like? Spill it!
HE: She’s not nice. She’s always on her cell phone. And her and Scott hate each other.
ME: I knew it.
HE: Yeah. But seriously, do you know how hard it is to be called Dick A. Fagg?
ME: You poor thing.
HE: Do you want your earring back?
ME: Sure. But first tell me about Alexis Bledel.

Rockslinga pal Jim Lewis exchanges emails with Jeff Salamon over at the Statesman regarding the NYT’s “best book of the last 25 years” exercise (I prefer to think of it as a white boys’ bukkake). Here’s some of what Jim had to say:

Please forgive me for saying so, but this sort of exercise, in both the Times’ form and in your refraction of it, strikes me as hopelessly vulgar and meretricious, and stupefying to one’s sense of the use and value of books. The literary world can be competitive, of course, but we should hardly encourage its devolution into an out-and-out contest, whether for first place or last. Books aren’t written that way, or read that way; and culture doesn’t work that way, nor does history remember that way.

And later, about the fact that the list of judges includes only three Latinos, of whom only one is American (Junot Diaz):

Were there no other American Latinos they could think of, or did they all demur? I don’t think you have to wait to see the list before you make the judgment: Either way would be telling. Where was Sandra Cisneros or Christina Garcia or Julia Alvarez, or Richard Rodriguez? While I’m at it, where was Sherman Alexie, or Colson Whitehead – not because they’re point men for ethnic groups, but just because they’re American writers of some prominence. For that matter, where’s McMurtry? As long as we’re inviting Ian McEwan, why not Orhan Pamuk? My point is not that they should have had some sort of affirmative action clause at work, but only that it would be nice to see a list, naturally derived, which reflected the true state of American literature today.

I recommend that you buy and read his novels: Why the Tree Loves the Ax, Sister, and The King is Dead. They’re all brilliant, and his characters–many of them misunderstood criminals– are unforgettable.

Also: he has an article in the Times Magazine today about Biloxi, FEMA, and the New Urbanists, with some hilarious Kool-aid metaphors.

A commentary on hybridity, post-colonialism, meat politics, women, and much more. I can’t even begin to dissect its meaty core.

I just discovered Books2eat, “The International Edible Book Festival is a yearly event that takes place on April 1 throughout the world. This event unites bibliophiles, book artists and food lovers to celebrate the ingestion of culture and its fulfilling nourishment. Participants create edible books that are exhibited, documented then consumed.” This shit is awesome! I am all for combining two things I love, food and books. Check out their gallery, it’s astounding.

Bookforum’s Summer issue focuses on a topic near and dear to me: the first novel. It’s worth perusing, especially for this William H. Gass quote: “One’s first novel is not like one’s first kiss—over after an instant of fearful bliss.” There’s also an interesting image from Rebecca Goldstein, who writes, “The first novel is dangerous for an author. It readies the little cubicle for all her future work to be crammed into.”

When I read Iris Murdoch’s Under the Net, I was consumed with jealousy that she’d written such a fabulous 1st novel. When I found out that it was actually her fifth, just her first published work, I became cloaked in a bit of schadenfreude, I admit. But many writers I’ve read about and talked to say their first published novel was not their first written. It just makes me wonder what exactly makes a first novel a first novel, and I like to wonder.

My first novel, in case you’re curious, was written at the age of 19 in my bedroom by my kid’s crib. If I had to summarize it, I’d say it’s about an abused teenage mother telling her unborn fetus, over the period of a single night, the story of its ancestors. It borrowed heavily from the Sheherazade/Duniazad frame. Maybe someday I’ll put it online for fun, but I’m glad it never went out as my first novel.

Thursday at 7PM at the KGBBar, H. Aram Veeser, an old student of Ed Said’s, will give a talk titled “The Influence of Edward Said”. Veeser is apparently interested in writing a bio of Said interlaced with incidents from his own life. Here’s an example of what that bio would look like: a charming essay, in which Veeser takes snapshots of Said’s “paradox of identity” alongside Veeser’s own:

But the Columbia campus of 1968 was no place for Cato the Elder, and when I met him there he was still an Englishman. It took the Reagan years fully to bring out the Jeremiah in him. The phrase “Tory anarchy” appealed to him, and for good reason: he embodied a style of high conservatism prey to fits of wild improvisation. He was beyond ambivalent; he was at war. Three events will convey the idea pretty clearly. First, my introduction to him went like this.

“Professor Said?”

“Yes, what is it?” Smile.”You see I’m on my way out.”

“Hi. My name is Harold Veeser and, uh, I, you are, I guess, my advisor.”

“Then you must have some little card for me to sign. Ah, yes, there it is, just give it over here. Oh, look [now delighted] your middle name is Aram. Why don’t you use it? Do you speak Armenian?” At this juncture Said put his arm around my shoulders. I was stunned.

“Well, no, a couple of words.”

“That was a piece of negligence, Aram. Why didn’t you learn it?”

“Well, my father, he’s German, so, I guess, they didn’t—you know, there wasn’t a lot of Armenian spoken.” I noticed that his chummy grasp was moving me toward the door.

“A way can always be found, my dear boy. You haven’t progressed very far with this card, have you. Your courses, you see, need to be written in here.”

“I wanted to ask you about courses, uh, because—well, I am an English major.”

“Of course. But, look, it can’t be today, I’m late for an appointment. This is just not the time. Why don’t you come round later this week.”

“Well, but I have to register now . . . .”

“Look, uh, Harold, I would love to discuss all this with you, and I will when you come in for a longer chat.” Big smile. I realize that his warm embrace has been steering me to the door. He opens it. “You sign up for Professor M******* R********’s course. The Bloomsbury Circle. He’s fantastic, a brilliant intellect. Look, I’ll sign the form.” He flourished a gold pen the size of a frankfurter and autographed my program card. “And it was really an immense pleasure to meet you. You must come in and see me. Good-bye.”

I found myself standing in the hall, having just experienced for the first time the odd pattern of embrace-plus-expulsion that distinguished so many of Said’s involvements. With literary theory, with the PLO, in fact everywhere except for his personal relationships which never wavered, there is the gift for extraordinary intimacy and the power of bitter, dismissive rejection—simultaneously. The meltingly warm embrace lay over a cold and steady gaze, like two transparencies on an overhead projector.

It gets better; go read the whole thing, you’ll love it.

I am so all about biographies right now. I hope he really does write it.

[Via L. Cerand over at Maud]