The Literary World Today

The actions of an activist protest movement presuppose a level of conscience in one's opponents and among objective observers. It's thought that exposing the TRUTH should in itself be enough to make change. That was my assumption when the ULA campaign began. Now I wonder if my faith in human nature was misplaced.

Despite the recent claims by A.O. Scott in the New York Times, Dave Eggers and his friends have no commitment to truth. None. They seldom "say what they mean" or mean what they say. Everything is a game.

Big guffaws all around no doubt about the fake letter in The Ruminator. Does anyone doubt that Daniel Handler contrived it? Chuckle, chuckle! A big hit at cocktail parties. (Handler's bio info brags about letters he used to send out under fake names.) It makes sense that Handler is a children's author. After all, he lies like a child. "No, I didn't eat the last slice of chocolate cake," the child insists, chocolate smeared over his face!

The fact is that I don't register in this society, and so can be slandered with falsehoods at will. The fact is that Dave Eggers and his friends are to the point of success where they can get away with anything. (This was proved with the Atlantic "killed story" matter, Eggers both initiator and professed victim of the ensuing tragedy.) This is the nature of American society. The sycophantic literary fans are dazzled by the success itself-- then find the qualities they wish to see in the writing. Eggers's memoir a lie? No matter! it's all a game. The baby-like scene of The Dave driving with "Toph" is cringe-worthy it's so contrived, but has meaning for those who identify with him and his privileged bubble-like upbringing.

The biggest obstacle to making change is the demi-puppet state of mind-- the attitude of the herd of media underlings, most themselves from affluent backgrounds, who support unquestioningly top-level aristocratic stars like Eggers and Rick Moody. The rest of American writers, like the bottom 80 or 90% of American society, have no existence for these people. Privilege itself is the highest value; the only morality.

The fake letter trivializes the ULA campaign. It reveals the simplistic way Eggers people see our arguments. Truths about classism and corruption are beyond them. Who does the ULA petition for redress of the grievance? Lit-bloggers? Journalists? Editors at HarperCollins? Not a one cares in the slightest. They lack any conception of the meaning of the word integrity, let alone the trait itself. To careerist sociopaths, success is the only truth, power the only conscience.

So let's throw away the A.O. Scott nonsense that postmodern lying is over. The fake letter in The Ruminator shows the perfection of the postmodern lie, no one involved in perpetrating the hoax the least bit shame-faced.

American Aristocrats

p.s. to the previous post.

Daniel Handler and Dave Eggers have apparently done many readings together, most notably at a swanky function in California on 4/21/05 at, fittingly, the Carolands, "one of the last great private homes in the United States."

"The Carolands was conceived as an adaptation of the Vaux-le-Vicomte, the chateau that inspired Louis XIV to build the palace of Versailles. This 65,000 square foot American Renaissance home was built by Pullman train car heiress. ."etc.etc.

Michael Chabon and Vendela Vida were also present. Guests sat at $10,000 "Pulitzer Prize" tables. The price tag included cocktail reception with the authors, valet parking, and gift bag.

There were other, various priced tables, all the way down to the slummy $500 "Booker Award" tables at the back.

The Case of Daniel Handler Part II: The Other E-Mail

At the bottom of Daniel Handler's first, 9/11, e-mail to me is attached a copy of an e-mail I'd sent him on June 27th. This reminded me that I HAD sent him an e-mail about the fake letter, over two months ago. What prodded my e-mail?

On June 24th I received an e-mail from a mystery person named "g smithe." I regularly receive a lot of e-mails from mysterious persons. Much I ignore. Many I delete. I had to check back to see if I'd saved this one. I had.

The 6/24 g smithe e-mail read, in part,
"You should know that King Wenclas's derisive letter to Daniel Handler (aka Lemony Snickett) is getting passed around by the literati-- not the ULA's strongest statement of purpose. Don't know if your "king" has been hitting the bottle or what, . . . ."

I replied that I'd sent no letters to anyone lately, that I wasn't sure who Handler/Lemony Snickett was, that the language described didn't sound like me, but I couldn't be sure unless I saw the letter.

"g smithe" responded with an e-mail 6/26:
"Thought it seemed out of character. Don't have a copy of the letter-- it was passed around at a party, not electronically-- but you can ask the man himself. . . ."
"smithe" included Handler's e-mail address.

On 6/27 "smithe" sent me another e-mail:
"Looks like McSweeney's & Co. are prepping a response . . . if you really didn't write him a letter you'd best nip this in the bud. . . ."

Though I thought the whole thing was a made-up prank, in order to cover myself I immediately sent Handler an e-mail:
"The letter supposedly from me being handed around at parties is a fake.
Anything you can tell me about the matter would be appreciated."

I also posted a comment on my blog on June 29 publicly disclaiming any connection to any such letter, then forgot the matter. Whether or not Handler read the June 29 post (aware as he now was of my blog, as he said), he received and read my 6/27 e-mail, as shown when he attached it to his 9/11 message.

Handler was aware on June 27 of my denial-- yet he gave the fake letter to The Ruminator anyway, which is highly unethical behavior, maybe libelous.

I'll gladly forward a copy of my 6/27 e-mail to any lit-blogger interested in the truth. I doubt, though, that anyone wants to touch this.

Know this about the Eggers gang: Even when they're wrong, they're not wrong. They're not wrong even when caught red-faced and red-handed, as they've been time and again. They're never wrong, and never can be, simply because they're such wonderful people.

Call it the arrogance and insularity of privilege, success, and power.

The Case of Daniel Handler, Part I

It's a good policy to operate in an upfront, open manner. Games, trickery, and anonymous names have a way of backfiring, as we've seen before.

I asked to see the postmark and envelope of the Ruminator letter, because I KNEW I hadn't sent the thing. (Granted that I may have enemies in Philly-- none though who'd stoop to such behavior as sending a fake letter.)

The letter should be recognized as fake by anyone familiar with my writing. I don't need to call anyone an "asshole," when I have logic on my side.

Daniel Handler has sent me two e-mails about this matter. I'll present the facts and let you, the reader of this blog, decide where lies the truth of the matter.

In his first e-mail to me, dated 9/11, Handler makes several assertions. 1.) The letter was forwarded to him by his publisher. 2.) He'd never heard of me before that time. 3.) He believed the letter was real because it matched the language of this blog. (We can presume then that after reading the letter he read this blog.)
The end of Handler's e-mail shows no anxiousness to get to the bottom of the matter: "I don't know what's going on and frankly don't care . . . if you'll excuse me I'm off to my local dive bar to drink bourbon and read Frederick Busch."

Several questions went through my head after reading Handler's statement-- first among them being, "Why did he wait so long to respond to this matter?" Note that his response occurred only after I tried to force his hand, asking, "Where's Daniel Handler?"-- and after I added a note showing that I was open to the possibility that he had indeed received the fake letter from somebody. Suddenly he let me know that he did receive it, indeed!

Why the wait? Once he was aware of my blog, wouldn't he look in periodically AFTER the letter appeared in The Ruminator? Wouldn't his friends at The Believer keep him updated?

On August 27 I put a post up on this blog, "Fake Letter," which addressed the controcersy. Whatever he'd thought beforehand, Handler should've been aware that the letter wasn't from me. Yet he sent no e-mail to me-- not for two weeks. He made no response while I notified The Ruminator, while Jeff Potter did; while further discussion occurred on this blog, along with the big Patrick Simonelli Monday Report on the matter on the www.literaryrevolution.com ULA site.

On September 8 Maud Newton mentioned the controversy on her widely-read site. The injured party Daniel Handler remained silent-- until September 11. Curious behavior.

(As we'll see in Part Two of this post, Handler knew the letter wasn't from me long before this.)

I'll readily accept Handler's other contention that he'd never heard of me or the ULA before receiving the letter (only his friends know the truth about this), even though The Believer, whose editors he's tight with, and which he presumably reads, did a contentious lead article on the ULA in 2003, which led to some minor "Page Six" controversy. He'd never heard of us though we attended a 2003 McSweeney's-sponsored affair at Housing Works in New York which had led to other "Page Six" publicity. He'd never heard of us even though the New York Times did a front-page article in January 2004 about anonymous Amazon attacks on the Underground Literary Alliance by Dave Eggers. The New York Times Book Review listed our site in their pages in October 2004, but Handler never reads the book journal. Many, many people have never heard of the ULA-- the Eggers gang NOT among them. But we can still accept his statement.

What we DO know is that Daniel Handler was aware of us AFTER receiving the letter, as he admits, BEFORE giving the letter to The Ruminator. This gives his exchange with David Sedaris more meaning, adding to the "wink, wink, nod, nod" tone of the exchange.

In my response to Handler's September 11 e-mail, the one in which he said he didn't care about the matter, I pointed out that he'd cared enough to pass around the letter at parties, and to give it to The Ruminator to publish publicly. I said (sincerely) that I wanted to find out who sent the letter. I asked about the postmark.

Handler replied on September 12. He said:
-"The letters were forwarded from my publisher, without the original envelope, as with much of my mail."
-"I don't bring private correspondence to parties,"
-"I can't imagine why we'd have any reason to communicate further,"

Note Handler's eagerness to drop the matter. Most interesting is the idea that his publisher opens his mail. I've had mail forwarded to me by periodicals and companies, addressed to me c/o the publication or company. Even when The Atlantic printed a simple letter by me, some time ago, they forwarded, unopened, mail addressed to me that was afterward sent to them. In fact, opening mail addressed to someone else, as far as I'm aware, is against the law. (Daniel Handler might want to notify his publisher about this.)

Even when one employs or designates a secretary or agent to handle one's mail, standard business procedure is to staple the opened envelope to the back of the letter. Often a return address is given only on the envelope. Everyone who receives a lot of mail-- as I do-- knows this. Further, the envelope is legal evidence that one received the item on such and such date. This is important ESPECIALLY if one is going to publish the letter. One could hardly credibly publish such letter without such proof of mailing and reception. Without such evidence, one may as well assume the letter was never mailed or received at all.

This is damning evidence to any notion that I sent the letter. It's reason alone for immediate apology and correction from The Ruminator, and from Handler himself. However, there's more, as I'll discuss in Part II, "The Other E-Mail."

The Eggers Juggernaut?

From the ULA's perspective, everything seems to be going "The Dave's" way.

We've been on the defensive since July; betrayed from within, attacked from outside. We're like the Achaeans at their ships in The Iliad, on the verge of being pushed back into the sea with nary an Ajax or Patroclus in sight to save the day, much less an Achilles.

Eggers, meanwhile, allied with rich and powerful lit-Insiders like Rick Moody, expands his empire as he strengthens his connections with the leading conglomerate publishing companies. Can anyone remember, or believe, that Eggers once portrayed his venture as alternative and D-I-Y? He misrepresented himself from the beginning. Now he's the center of energy and power of establishment literature.

Folks at small lit-journals like The Ruminator will naturally be afraid to offend the Eggers gang-- would sooner besmirch their own reputation by letting stand without correction a fake letter in their pages. Who can blame them? If Eggers can force the Atlantic to cave in to his will, as he did a few years ago when they were about to publish a potentially critical article on him, what can one expect from The Ruminator?

Lit-bloggers are likewise cowed. They'll contort their arguments to avoid criticizing Dave and his allies, portraying those who stand up to him as crazy. The most prominent lit-blogger engages in around-the-clock adulation, prepared at any moment to eviscerate his enemies.

In this past Sunday's New York Times we saw an article which is similarly fawning. More than that, it was a free advertisement for one of his publications! Titled "Among the Believers," written by A.O. Scott, the article gymnastically links Dave Eggers in a laudatory if not idolistic way with a new lit project by Keith Gessen called "n +1." Gessen and his friends state "it is time to say what you mean"-- with the unsaid caveat that ideas have meaning in the exclusive realm of established literature only if spoken by the right people.

Eggers has to be chortling over the Scott article. Why? Keith Gessen was the author of the infamous killed Atlantic article which had irritated The Dave. (It was a 95% puff piece.) Gessen was upset at the time-- his friends got me a copy-- yet declined to voice his complaints publicly. Gessen balked when given the opportunity by "Page Six" to express his anger, when asked to "say what you mean." He instead made a careful, inocuous statement. Now Eggers's one-time antagonist is allowed to crawl into the spotlight, in an article whose main thrust is the greatness of Dave!-- "Believers" in big letters in the headline, photo included of Eggers's wife; Gessen's project a secondary consideration. Gessen's radical brainstorm idea, the sudden lightbulb realization that maybe it's time to speak with honesty and clarity (which for the ULA comes naturally) is, 1984-style, claimed for its true originator, the antithesis of the notion; the epitomy of postmodern fakery-- Dave Eggers!

Whatever idea is thought suddenly trendy, there will be found beforehand, like a Big Brother billboard, the smirking mug of The Dave.

But, after all his setbacks and struggles, Keith Gessen is at last taken seriously, adorned with blazer and tie and allowed entrance into The Club. Not through the servants' entrance either! There he strides through the front door, little worse for the wear, albeit noticeably cautious and tame, his eyes rather blank, rather glazed, as if he'd been hypnotized or lobotomized.

Bow to Eggers obsequiously, beg for forgiveness, and maybe you also will be given a portion of acceptability. Or maybe not. After all, it depends on the unpredictable whim and humor of The Dave.

Response from Daniel Handler

Since my last post on this matter, I've received an e-mail from Daniel Handler stating that the fake letter was forwarded to him from his publisher. He also says he's since received another. Handler says he doesn't care about the letters, that he has other things to do, etc. I have to point out that he cared enough to pass it around at parties, and include it in the Sedaris interview, as if it was a big joke.

But who's sending the letters to his publisher? I hope Mr. Handler can get back to me about the postmark. One thing I know is that SOMEONE is going to a lot of trouble to play these pranks. The purpose, as it concerns the ULA, seems to be two-fold.
1.) To mimic and therefore mock ULA agitation.
2.) To discredit the sending of real letters, as we've done under our own names in the past (not for quite some time, to be honest), and thereby chill our right to communicate, petition, and protest.
It's a subtle and warped campaign.

As to who specifically is doing it-- the language strikes me as similar to that of "Bryan Guski," the basketball blogger, and others who've been attacking the ULA on this site.

If the Ruminator prints a correction, this matter will be settled.

The New Paris Review: A Big Mistake

I'm sure I'm not the only person who'll notice that the new look of the Paris Review makes it indistinguishable from generic lit-journals like Grand Street and Kenyon Review.

The Paris Review had an immediately recognizable size and title; distinctive logos and packaging: a true literary brand. 50-plus years of investment in this brand is now destroyed-- without anything distinctive or unique to take its place. A colossal mistake.

Football Notes

A Part-Time Fan. Week One.

-Bret Favre and Steve McNair should've retired.

-Good coaching (Miami; San Francisco) makes a difference.

-Maybe Paul Hackett wasn't the problem with the New York Jets. His conservative system protected Chad Pennington the way a trust-fund baby author is protected by Morgan Entrekin.

Superbowl Prediction: Pittsburgh against Philadelphia.

Where's Daniel Handler?

Why is Daniel Handler silent about the letter in the Ruminator? Why no explanation?

I have to shake my head in disbelief at this matter. It's amazing. I'm libelled with impunity. The lit world looks the other way. Kind of verifies the utter lack of integrity among literary people, doesn't it?

The ULA and Its Enemies

I'll reiterate, for those who don't know, that the Underground Literary Alliance from its beginning has operated in an open, honest, upfront manner. We've documented our accusations. We've presented them under our own names, accepting accountability for what we do and say.

By contrast, Dave Eggers's journal McSweeney's was born in an atmosphere of games and trickery. (Does anyone remember the McSweeney's family?) His publications have contained fake letters and false identities. This has been the essence of his behavior. In 2004 the New York Times itself revealed that Eggers, not the ULA, had engaged in anonymous attacks. Further evidence, in fact, about the two camps is available in the history of this blog. Witness the unrelenting swarm of pseudonymous and anonymous attacks against the ULA, which we confronted under our own names.

The question is out there: Which side is honest and which side lies? The answer, for anyone who looks at the situation honestly, with clear heads and unclouded eyes, is obvious.

What's the ULA? We're the whistle-blowers of literature, and for this we pay a price.

Another Rich Guy Writes a Book

What's the latest literary news,
Media pushed at me and you?
Smarmy feckless familiar review
"Another Rich Guy Writes a Book"
Moody, Wilsey, Beller, Ellis
Fawning questions, gushy coverage
Fops posed to hint at wild danger,
though they look like Wall Street traders
Square-jawed smirky mugs are seen
glossy pages, magazines
Headline message always the same
"Another Rich Guy Writes a Book!"

Class War in the Literary World

Don't kid yourselves-- that's exactly what the battles the ULA is having with the herd of conformist litsters is about. The Underground Literary Alliance has been attacked from outside and from within. Our enemies-- there's no other way to categorize them-- show hardly a shred of integrity. Lies, plagiarism, phony letters, endless anonymous attacks-- the purpose to enforce a Mono-Class Mono-Think Mono-Literature with no place for outsider voices.

What will be the result if our foes have their way and the ULA is destroyed? One of the few remaining voices standing for real outside the mainstream will have been silenced. A steel curtain will have dropped protectively around the status quo. Only the authorized, the certified, the programmed will be consdiered writers. The conjoined bureaucracies of university and conglomerate will reign dominant over literary culture. We see this now-- the ULA and this blog virtually blacklisted, our every revelation no matter how serious scorned or ignored. The herd is mad at US for Daniel Handler's fake letter-- as if, somehow, we forced him to do it.

What the Handler letter reveals is the grimy truth about the privileged darlings at the center of American literature. For bourgeois writers; for the Insider crowd and their apologists and acolytes, there can be no accommodation, no peace with our kind of writer and artist. A big "X" on the bottom of a page-- that's what this crowd of snobs truly thinks of us. Many of us in the ULA have been treated like shit by this society since Day One. The continuation of same shouldn't surprise us-- it always does. At our core we're idealists; thinking there can be a better way; that we can prevail in our fight to rescue literature from the corrupt careerist conformists who have tight hold of it and won't let go.

No, we're not "writers" in the standardized sense. We only WRITE, honestly expressing our experiences and ideas. I heard on a sports radio show the other day a caller say, about an anthology, "I'm not a reader, but I enjoyed that book." Is there a more telling clue about how to rescue the art; a more important statement about what writers should aim toward, who we should include (everyone); what literature should be about?

Ruminator Response

Today I received this response to my query about the fake letter in the Ruminator:

"We printed a scanned version of the original letter sent to Daniel Handler.
Thank you for your comment,
Susannah McNeely, Editor."

In my reply to this, I said, in part, "Sent to him by who??? Again, I didn't write or send that."

I await further explanation from Ms. McNeely, and from Daniel Handler himself.

(The question: Is this all just a big joke to Handler, Sedaris, McNeely, and others?)

Demi-Puppet Angst

Last weekend I received an e-mail from long-time McSweeney fan Lee Klein. He wondered fretfully why he couldn't post a comment on this blog. This was a surprise to me, as Lee hadn't yet posted here-- at least, not under his own name.

In 2002 when we had the ULA Forum going, Lee was a regular poster, under a variety of names, including "Throop Roebling." If you don't know, Lee Klein is not only a devoted McSweeney's follower, he's friends with Insider writers like Zadie Smith, Amanda Filipacchi, and others. (To Lee, David Foster Wallace is a god.) One might consider Lee something of an overgrown establishment lapdog.

Could Lee Klein be one of a legion of demi-puppets (like "Bryan Guski") eager to score points with influential lit-people by attacking the ULA? No way! I'm sure his intended post was highly complimentary.

About ULA Membership

I mourn the departure of any ULAer from the team (there have been eight), seeing it as ULA failure-- failure in screening, or in meshing the person into our mad campaign.

EXPECTATIONS
We ask ULAers to support one another. The Underground Literary Alliance is supposed to be a team. The idea being, that which benefits the group benefits the individual. That which benefits the individual, by extension benefits the rest of the group, because of the individual's connection to the ULA. Getting the ULA name known is our first priority. One name, all focus on that. ULA. ULA! Everything else will follow. One can't jump to step D by skipping steps A, B, and C.

The amount of influence one has in the ULA depends on the amount of work one does for it, and how strongly one defends it. We ask for agreement with our general goal: The creation of an authentic, alternative literature. We remain open to all kinds of writers, as long as they believe in what we're doing, are willing to identify with our cause, and tie their fate to the ULA name.

LOYALTY
We've never demanded loyalty from ULAers, we've only asked for it. Otherwise, why be in the ULA? What would be the point? One of our early members attacked the ULA publicly for over a year, even produced a zeen announcing our demise, yet we never once asked the person to leave. I've given loyalty to each ULAer, even on occasions when doing so burnt bridges to lit people. In return I've HOPED for support from them for the ULA. Commitment is a two-way street. I've never asked anyone to do what I wouldn't do myself; I've been at the forefront of our actions and activities. This to me is the essence of leadership.

LEADERSHIP
Three years ago Michael Jackman was made Director of the ULA in hopes he would take a leading role as organizer and spokesman for the team. He had the personality for the role, was more presentable and articulate than myself. At some point he chose to adopt a low profile. When we find someone else suited for the role, who understands ULA philosophy, who believes in the team and the campaign, that person will be pushed forward.

MEMBERSHIP PROBLEM I
Too many ULAers have identified the ULA solely with me, judging their positions in the organization according to the status of their relationship with me. If I don't pay them enough attention, or answer every one of their e-mails, or read the entire body of their fiction and poetry-- as if there were ten of me, each one with endless amounts of time-- they're in crisis. The idea is for them to bond with the team; or as important, with the ULA name.

MEMBERSHIP PROBLEM II
Many of those we've lost were embarrassed to be in the ULA-- and so had no business joining in the first place.

BEST FIT
To date, zeensters-- those for whom zeening is not an experiment but a lifestyle; who long ago dropped pretensions of snobbery-- have been the best fit for the ULA. I believe the underground poets we're slowly bringing in will be a good addition as well, along with literary e-zinesters who understand what we're doing. Satirists and comedians mesh easily with us also. (After Neal Pollack fails at everything else, he'll be in the ULA.)

ADDENDUM
Several profiles of those who weren't completely right for the team:

THE FRIEND
I brought Michael Grover into the ULA solely because he was a good friend and I liked his poetry-- without thought of preparation, of letting him know exactly what he was joining.

THE FENCE STRADDLER
This is the person who hates to takes sides; who, like Rodney King, wants to get along with everyone. "Will Ratblood," for instance, is a nice guy who liked the ULA but also liked our most egregious enemies. He wants to like everybody! Since leaving the ULA and moving to New York City he keeps checking his mailbox for an invitation to join McSweeney's, but the mailbox remains empty.

THE CYNIC
This is someone who sees, to his mind, our basic incompetence, but also sees the attention we received, which must've dropped by accident from the sky. "What hapless losers!" he thinks. A word registers in his brain: "Opportunity." The cynically impatient hustler appears from nowhere with offers to get us squared away. "I can do this for you, and this, and this. You'll look and sound just like the big guys!" Because his hidden attitude toward us is one of total contempt, the attitude eventually explodes from him and he doesn't last-- particularly when we don't immediately follow his prescriptions for success, don't make peace with conglomerate-run lit media and meld into the System-approved tried-and-failed rulebook mode of operating which for him is a given, but continue speaking out and doing things our crazy ULA way.

THE CONSERVATIVE
We've interested a few conservatives in our campaign over the past several years, but have had difficulty retaining them. Some of our common sense criticisms and ideas are conservative, or at least libertarian, or at least anarchist masquerading as libertarian. Most conservatives, however, believe in hierarchies, while we're egalitarian. We not only represent the underdogs of the lit-world, we ARE those underdogs.

THE LITERARY SNOB
This is a "Writer" with a capital W, the next coming of Henry James, whose accidental fall into our camp is merely a momentary setback. Ugh! Such company! Who is this idiotic Wenclas with his 40's skid row styles, or that unruly Wild Bill guy? Or Wred Fright! The snobby "Writer" is clearly slumming, generously allowing us the honor of promoting him or her while keeping one eye open for better opportunities. We know exit is near when the person stiffly stands and walks with head cocked at a proper nose-in-the-air tilt, and speaks, Madonna-style, with a phony British accent while nasally quoting Martin Amis.

THE SURPRISED
This individual joins up without bothering to learn our history, or read the manifesto on our site, or understand we're a radical, noise-making operation with hosts of enemies; or realize to be a ULAer is to be the most ostracized kind of outcast on today's literary landscape.

Refugees?

Debate rages over whether the folks evicted from New Orleans should be called refugees, evacuees, or survivors. I don't know which term is more accurate-- but I do know that scattered across the streets of Philadelphia and other cities of this great country, long before the hurricane, are people who look to me like refugees; refugees from rat-race American society. I guess as the bar is constantly raised, as more credentials and mentors are required, as the pace of the conformist Machine we all live in becomes faster all the time, many are thrown out of the house of America, or never allowed to enter in the first place.

Maybe there are more refugees in this nation than we think. (Some of them in the ULA.) I've known a lot of underground artists and writers, in both Detroit and this city, and most of them could be described as refugees. No health care, for years, for decades, walking around with accummulating contained ailments. One can spot the undergrounder right away-- usually the person has bad teeth, taped-up eyeglasses, walks with a cane from a broken leg or hip which never healed properly. Sometimes the person is also just a little crazy-- or seems to be to bourgeois outsiders. In truth, these are the sane people. The crazy are the mindless hordes caught up in the gears of the machine, unable to question it, to ask if there might be a better way.

Refugees? What else can millions of Americans consider themselves but refugees from a mad society?

The Great Shock

This is the screaming we've heard for the past week as the nation's privileged were forced to watch on their TV screens the realities of life in this country-- that there exists an underclass in America which is continually either ignored or treated like shit. This reality takes place every day-- unseen.

Outrage! yell the liberal lit-bloggers. Do something! Don't force us to see!

As these individuals live most of the time in Fantasyland with no sense of context, they look for an easy scapegoat-- which of course is comically and tragically provided by the flailing rich guy who occupies the White House. Remove him and everything will be fine! It's a start, but ignores a class system along with giant institutional forces which dominate this country, including the corporate money which paid for Bush's campaign and election in the first place. The solution is to change the nature of American society itself.

Literature is our chosen arena. The ULA seeks to change the nature of discovering and promoting writers; of ending the elitism and hierarchies in this corner of society.

The same lit-bloggers screaming about the treatment of poor people in New Orleans live in an insular world consisting of only those who look, think, and behave like themselves; writers from similar backgrounds; with familiar education, styles, codes, and ideas. These same individuals mock the ULA constantly, because A.) we're different from them; B.) we demand to be treated as equals. Snobbery and hypocrisy. Daniel Handler, David Sedaris, and the big "X" on the bottom of a fake letter-- there's evidence for what I say.

Establishment Counter-Attack Against the ULA

I'm told that Daniel G. Handler of the fake letter in the Ruminator has close ties to the 826 Valencia crowd. It should also be noted that David Sedaris's sister Amy is a regular contributor to The Believer. The phony letter, then, is in line with steady actions against the ULA over the last few years.

To list several, as a reminder:
-After the ULA's "Firecracker Awards" protest, our house publication Slush Pile being excluded from bookstores with close ties to Dave Eggers. (Such as Atomic Books in Baltimore.)
-The poorly researched 2003 Tom Bissell hatchet job on the ULA, filled with inaccuracies, which appeared in The Believer.
-The January 2004 revelation, discussed on the front page of the New York Times, that Dave Eggers had been personally attacking the ULA anonymously on Amazon.
-The bizarre Rick Moody short story about Philadelphia, "Free Library," in a 2004 issue of Ploughshares. The story includes a character modeled after me, with details about my life which could've been obtained only through investigation, or from a close source.

In 2005 the campaign against myself and the ULA has heated up, as evidenced by the steady variety of attacks on this blog. We've seen phony ULA sites, mad anonymous posts, and imitation Demi-Puppet blogs. SOMEONE has been investing a great deal of time in mocking us. The posts and fake blogs don't appear spontaneously on their own. We can postulate a person or persons behind them. Who?

Though many demi-puppet lit-bloggers hate the Underground Literary Alliance, I doubt the likes of Maud Newton and Company have the time or energy to post very much on this blog, or to create fake blogs. They're busy with their own. (Sucking up to Zadie Smith takes work!) The person behind the attacks on us has to be someone either with leisure time, or willing and able to pay to have the job done.

Dave Eggers is known to engage in vendetta behavior. One can look at his intense and successful campaign to have a 2001 Atlantic article about himself squelched. Or consider the threatening phone calls received by two individuals when a story about the matter was about to appear in "Page Six" of the New York Post. As for Mr. Moody, if he's the utter innocent he portrays himself to be, knowledgeable about little, scarcely touched by the happenings of the world, then he must be excluded from consideration. IF, however, his prominent role in the machinery of the lit-world-- steady appearances on foundation grants panels; founder of the Young Lions series; prominent PEN member and Yaddo overseer; etc.-- is NOT the result of mere accident, then he also has to be counted a suspect. Both men, after all, are very wealthy, and can pay for that which they're unwilling to do themselves.

All this is speculation-- thinking out loud. One sees a pile of shit in the middle of the highway and wonders how it got there.

There have been other recent tactics, such as the McSweeney's peace offer, or the fake Rick Moody cassette tape mailed to me from New York. Games and mischief. Some of it for fun, but some of it with more serious purpose-- to divide the ULA, derail our progress, and shut down this blog.

Jay McInerney the Wonk

McInerney in the 8/28 New York Times Book Review:

"Benjamin Kunkel's 'Indecision,' which manages to make the whole flailing, postadolescent, prelife crisis feel fresh and funny again, even as it sometimes resembles nothing so much as a self-conscious, postmodern homage/parody of the genre. In the end, though, it might just yearn to be something more daring than that, like, maybe, a post-9/11, postironic novel: a tentative response to David Foster Wallace's call for a new generation of sincere anti-rebels 'who have the childish gall actually to endorse and instantiate single-entendre principles.'"

Say what? Single entendre? McInerney isn't being ironic.

Who's Jay McInerney? A well-connected rich guy who made a career out of one Plimpton-mentored Paris Review short story later padded into his only decent novel. Since, he's been mainly a wine taster. That this (yet another) scion of wealth who can't write OR think has the lead essay in our nation's highest circulation literary publication marks the decayed condition of American letters.

The entire tired turgid essay shows two things:
1.) McInerney has forgotten how to write like a human being. Instead, he tries to be a literary intellectual like Foster Wallace-- without accompanying intellect.
2.) Establishment lit-figures like Jay Mac are struggling fitfully, with "tentativeness," toward the solid ground of where the ULA stands now. He calls for clarity in writing without being able to clearly describe it or accomplish it. He applauds "the birth of social conscience"-- "alienated from the status quo and politically awakened"-- which to him has meaning ONLY if members of the status quo like himself or Kunkel embrace the concept!

Contradictions and confusion abound. They want to question and attack the status quo and hang onto it at the same time. They suspect a literary revolution might be taking place. "Wait!" they yell. "Let WE the approved cultural leaders get to the front!"

As in everything, this privileged crowd expects to always be first in line. The Marquis de Lafayette advocating democracy while expecting himself and his friends to remain aristocrats and retain the biggest say.

(Quiz: Spot the blatant typo on the NYTBR's front page.)

The Forbidden Zone: Conclusion

(Sub Report, April --, 2005.
1st Block: I tried to teach the students something about business, what they'll face in the job world. Did not make a lot of headway. Gave them emergency lesson assignment with 25 minutes left in period. Shadae, Unique, Kelli, and Latoya completed it-- no one else.
2nd Block: I kept some of the class busy with emergency assignment ("Buying a Car") plus one of my own. Overall the students were okay.
3rd Block: The class was uninterested, with a few exceptions.
10th Module: Nothing to report.)

After a day of trying to impose my will upon the students, and failing, a tentative truce has been reached. The students minimally cooperate as long as I don't try to change the set way of doing things in the classroom. The dirty little secret of urban schools is that they're run by the students, who allow a facade of control over themselves, so they can get their diplomas (so some of them can anyway-- those who don't drop out) and the teachers and administrators can keep their jobs. The unspoken agreement: We'll pretend to learn and you'll pretend to teach us. (Not that no students learn-- many do, but their learning is something they do on their own, only casually related to the expense of buildings, staff, curriculums, and so on. I can't say I learned a tremendous amount myself in school. My mother taught me to read, as she taught my old man after she married him. My real education came from my jobs and my reading. High school was something I slept through.)

In the office on the second floor, the Principal, his assistant, and the clerks scrupulously construct a bureaucratic masterpiece of a fantasy that all is well. This is shown by the p.a. announcements the Principal regularly makes-- about attendance and academic progress-- to which no one-- not teachers or students-- pays attention. (It takes a day for me to filter out his words from the rest of the noise.) In his office within the office, safely burrowed deep, the Principal exults in his land of make-believe. "Good afternoon. Remember that students must at all times be in proper school uniform. Thank you for your cooperation."

Uniforms! I had no idea the students in this school were supposed to wear uniforms! As I look at the sulky students before me, I in fact now see shards of what may have once been parts of uniforms-- a white blouse here, with sleeves cut off, otherwise covered with assorted paraphernalia. There, what might be black uniform shoes, and navy-blue uniform socks.

My teaching consists of handing out the daily assignment, answering a very occasional question about it. (When I ask students if I can help, I encounter moody silence.) As a learning tool the assignment is useless. To a portion of the students it's ridiculously easy-- grade school stuff not fit for a high school. Another portion has no interest whatsoever in it-- they're occupied gambling, or in planning after school scams. A third portion, tuned out of education from Day One, isn't to the level of even attempting the assignment. For them, twelve years of school has resulted in: nothing. Warehousing.

The parameters of my role are set. The arguments of the first day between myself and the classes have dwindled to mutual silence. I don't completely give up. On Wednesday I leave messages on the blackboard for students to read or not read when they come in-- education by osmosis. Such as: "The Business Spirit: Guy in middle of avenue selling newspapers." The kind of no-pay job which earns the students' contempt, though most of them will end up in exactly such positions or worse. I pick out those who'll be in the slammer within six months of graduating. Many know prison is their fate-- and welcome it. In the rule throughout the school of Strong over Weak, the endless games of Predator and Prey, this institution is preparation for the survival test of incarceration. Fortunate are those who'll stay out of the dungeons. For the salvageable students, a school day is something to endure, little more.

I learn from observation. I sit atop my desk impassively, on guard to break up fights while thoughts run through my mind. Some students are worth appreciating-- even in the toughest class.

The Prima Donna wants to complete the assignment the fastest. Once handed it, she's on a speed clock. Problems with numbers are a breeze for her. Vocabulary questions give her trouble.

"What's this word, 'impudent,'" she asks. "What that mean?"

"Arrogant," I tell her. "You know, like Donald Trump."

"Who he?"

I remind myself they don't watch that TV show on this planet! I compliment her on her work anyway-- she's defined by her pride, evident by her dress and her bearing. By her arrogance! "You so fly," she tells me.

I appreciate Mr. Shorts for attempting the assignments, though he struggles over them mightily. Each day he slides his desk toward a particular girl to ask questions. The girl ends up helping him. On occasions when they think I'm not watching (though I always AM watching) she completes the assignment for him.

On Wednesday I'm able to coax a key to the classroom out of the office. During lunch period I'm able to leave my jailroom. The orange-vested hall monitors and blue-shirted security guards stand at the edges of the vacated hallways. They look bedraggled; overwhelmed.

I have one of them unlock the staff men's room on the floor for me (I still have no key for that). At a small, ancient wooden table inside sits a rumple-haired teacher with his head in his hands. He sighs. "How long you been doing this job?" I ask him. "Fifteen years," he tells me. "Is it always bad?" I ask. He shrugs. "Some days are worse than others!"

Thursday morning I realize the First Block class has become divided. The back two-thirds of the room belongs to the delinquents and their sympathizers. Those who want no part of them, including scattered bullying victims, have pushed their desks close to the front toward my desk for protection. My week's efforts have carved out a safe zone. At least that's something. Should I settle for that? No! My task now is to expand my territory. It's time to attempt an Extra Credit assignment.

"Extra Credit: List five or more business brand names," I write on the board, then hand out sheets of paper to those who'll accept them. The students at the front do so. The assignment is ridiculously simple. Yes, it doesn't "teach" anything. I want the students to at least think about the nature of the world around them; the prevalence of brands, business, corporations. (Even the well-schooled seldom acknowledge the structure of the society in which we live.)

"Brand names are everywhere," I tell them. "Fast food franchises carry a brand name, as do the tires on a car, the labels on the clothes you wear, or the recordings you listen to on your headphones."

The students stare at me for a full minute, then begin scribbling furiously. They bat names back and forth among themselves. Several students in the back part of the room pick up their heads to watch. In what remains of the period, a girl has listed 59 brand names, most of them for women's clothing or accessory articles. She hands in the paper with an impudent smirk. A friend of hers keeps writing right to the bell. "85," she says quietly when finished.

"Hey man, what's the record?" one of the back-of-the-room observers asks me. "85 pretty good." "I don't know," I say. "Must be around 100." He strokes his chin and nods his head before walking out.

I hadn't figured on the competitive aspect of the assignment, but can use it. "A girl in the last period listed 85 brand names," I tell the Second Block students when I mention the assignment. "I think the record's a hundred."

The five brightest students in this my brightest class perfunctorily dig in to the project, after completing the regular assignment. Gigantic Thug #1, surrounded by a circle of desks of his friends, watches the five for ten minutes. "Let me show them how it's done," he at last says out loud, standing up and striding forward. "Mr. Dude, let me borrow one of those paper sheets." I hand him a pen as well.

The best of the best five students approach 80. The giant leaves them in the dust, raising his arms in celebration when passing 85, then the long-held (one hour?) century mark. "Now we set a record no one gonna break!" he announces to his friends and to myself.

At 120 he stalls. His posse of friends begins helping him, offering suggestions, quietly shuffling forward brands. "There!" the giant says when he hands me the paper. "200. No one gonna top that, not in the whole school system." He pauses before easing his enormous bulk out the door. "If I had more time I would've done more."

"200," I tell the Third Block group of prima donnas, card sharps, and future convicts when I mention the Extra-Credit assignment and point to the board. "That's the All-Time World Record, set during the previous period."

"Man. . . .," mutter several of the students at this news. No way can this fact be allowed! This group is the toughest, shrewdest, quickest, canniest of all, and they know it. They look at themselves as if to say, "Which one of us is going to take down that fool record?"

The Prima Donna halts at 50. Many others realize the task is too great and give up. A couple students, though, struggle on. Eventually all hope settles on a young man named Leonard, a card game regular noteworthy for his silence. Students stand over him as he racks up the brand names, one after another. "Clothes," the Prima Donna says. "Cars," says the pint-sized card sharp. "Restaurants," "Sports teams," "Newspapers," say others.

Leonard slows down at the 180 mark. The class becomes lost in thought. Even Gigantic Thug #2 has stopped his stream of cussing and sits pondering. More recording labels. Someone thinks to look at the side of a textbook (the only one in the room) on my desk, and mentions the name of the company. "Does that count?" the student asks. I nod yes.

Interest now focuses on the clock. Is enough time left? The minutes click down. Students peruse their clothes, purses, shoes, radios, watches. The 200 mark is shattered as more industries are thought about, to pour additional dozens of brands into the mix. Gigantic Thug #2 slams his hand on his desk and grins from his madness. At the side of the room the Angry Man, continuing the card game with three others, scowls. "Airlines!" the crazy giant exclaims in response, and several more names go onto Leonard's list.

The bell ends the pursuit of names at 277. The triumph of the record mark is only marginally mitigated for me when the last class, of 9th graders, shows entirely no interest in the project.

Friday, being Friday, is chaos. Many students are absent; many more fill the halls. The students in my classes and I wait for the time to pass; for the cherished weekend. Gigantic Thug #1 in 2nd Block asks my opinion of the basketball season. In 3rd Block the card game goes on as normal. Leonard, though, hangs with a few others around my desk as we discuss movies. Students surreptitiously look at me. Curiosity? Who is this white guy? One offers me a donut, for which I'm grateful.

A loud kicking at the door. A student opens it. Gigantic Thug #2 in the hallway beckons for me. He holds an official-looking slip of paper in his huge hand. "I need this signed," he tells me. It's some kind of cut slip or absence request. I scowl as I look at it. "I don't understand any of this paperwork," I admit as I scribble something on the slip. He grins. "Neither do I!"

"Hey!" I say to the pint-sized hustler pocketing his cash when students are filing out of the room. "Doesn't the house get a cut?" He looks at me for a minute, wondering if I'm serious. "Naaww," he says.

The 9th graders continue their playground behavior, then they're gone and I'm free to escape. In the stairwell as I make my way downstairs stand Mr. Shorts and his gal pal from 3rd period. An invisible bond of affection is evident between them. Despite the obstacles they face, here are two individuals I think will make it.

Substitute teachers are proferred targets for the students-- excuses (if they needed any) to run wild. I'm still new at the game. Will I be able to acclimate myself to these assignments? Will I find ways to reach these young people?

I drop off the classroom key at the second floor office. The bulldog assistant principal, unseen all week, is suddenly alongside me. "Thanks for helping out," he tells me pointedly. Then he's turned, in his bulldog way; is behind the counter sniffing paperwork at the clerks' desks, pondering already what will be required to keep this outpost of education operating next week.