Yesterday afternoon, Alan Kaufman held a rally to protest the explusion of a student and the dismissal of a teacher. 100 students and several authors delivered speeches. There are still no answers or explanations from Sallie Huntting.

Mr. Birnbaum has noted here and on his blog that, in the great New Yorker fiction debate, Jim Harrison’s “Father Daughter” has been overlooked. Now that I’ve finally read the story, with its existential themes and its subtle use of details and language, I’m inclined to agree.

Why was it forgotten? Well, speaking for myself, my stack of New Yorkers is half-read, with the articles perused in an very idiosynchratic manner. I read everything after the fiction section and the whole of Talk of the Town. And then, time permitting, I launch into all the articles or, alternately, the ones I have time to read. This system allows me to leaf through the offerings several times and gives me several opportunities to read it all. Plus, it’s a great way to cure a hangover.

But more often than not, I don’t give the New Yorker‘s fiction a chance, unless a “familiar author” has written a story or it’s a special fiction issue (in which case, I read everything). As previously noted, it has a lot to do with the New Yorker‘s emphasis on bourgeois concerns, utterly foreign or overly niggling problems to drive narrative, about as relevant to the average person’s life as Cheez Whiz is to the gouda connoisseur. In fact, it was something of a shock to read Jim Harrison’s story, with its scope extending across race, class and generation. Because that’s the kind of thing I’d expect somewhere else.

So, yes, I plead guilty. But, as I noted before, I rely on other magazines for my short fiction. Even though this is entirely unfair to Jim Harrison. But then it’s also possible to make a case for enthusiasm: What reader wouldn’t swoon at a new offering from Z.Z. Packer or T.C. Boyle?

I suspect that the real perpetrator here is the New Yorker itself. If the New Yorker were to offer two or three stories per issue (as they did back in the day), then the emphasis would be on fiction, as opposed to the singular literary superstar who, through talent, pluck and East Coast connections, managed to score a week under the eiderdown. When I look at the fiction section, I get the uncomfortable sense that peacocks somewhere are extending their feathers. To me, that’s not what fiction should be about, even though that’s the way the publishing industry works.

[NEWSFLASH: This just in. Jim Harrison has tragic results for bookish romantics.]

There’s some good stuff hitting the ‘sphere.

First off, Jimmy Beck takes down New Yorker fiction editor Deborah Treisman — specifically, over the insufferable Ann Beattie story now hitting mailboxes. Now the New Yorker still publishes good fiction (that last T.C. Boyle story comes immediately to mind), but if you need a hard dose of the Genuine Article, the latest Ploughshares (featuring a hearty offering of young writers handpicked by others) and a subscription to the always reliable ZYZZYVA or The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction might be a start. It would be foolish to declare that the New Yorker has jumped the shark. But I would love — just love — for the New Yorker to publish something gritty, something that would reduce us all to tears, if only to subvert the de rigueur digression of McSweeney’s and the overall obsession with upscale Caucasians living in upstate New York complaining about things that a few rounds of therapy couldn’t cure. Why not commission Edward Jones (now the proud winner of the Pulitzer) or Colson Whitehead or Dorothy Allison or someone like Kathy Acker or anyone, goddam anyone, to write about the seamy side of life? At the very least, it might leave a few Caucasians clutching their claret with greater alacrity. But then that’s what fiction is about, isn’t it? Leave in the umlauts for words like “reentry” and spell “role” in that funky way. That’s why we love the New Yorker. And besides, that isn’t the issue. Treisman needs to understand that it’s the 21st century.

Then there’s Laila looking into the Zoo Press deal. I’ve received no callbacks from Azevedo either. But I’ll keep trying. On the Atlantic front, I’ve been playing telephone tag with a very nice lady in the advertising department. Don’t know if I’ll get any answers, but I’ll keep you folks posted.

The illustrious Mark Sarvas remains in New York, but he has, to my considerable astonishment, checked in here when he should be doing other things. Do visit The Elegant Variation and keep Scott Handy some company. He’s doing a fine yeoman’s job at guest blogging this week.

Sam promises to offer a series this week devoted to narrative elements.

There are two big questions at About Last Night: (1) Who’s feeding Terry the Rockstars? and (2) Where the sam hill is OGIC?

And Dan Green (recent winner of the FOG Index contest) has been on a roll too. He takes on literary contest scams, reviewer biases and (bravely) James Wood.

And visit the good folks on the left while you’re at it.

All good stuff. Joe Bob says check it out.

Psychology Today has an interesting story up on the relationship between shyness and society:

In this cultural climate, we lose patience quickly because we’ve grown accustomed to things happening faster and faster. We lose tolerance for those who need time to warm up. Those who are not quick and intense get passed by. The shy are bellwethers of this change: They are the first to feel its effects. And so it’s not surprising that hyperculture is actually exacerbating shyness, in both incidence and degree.

(via Nathalie)