Magazine and newspaper articles, including those from the Jewish Journal of Greater Los Angeles, by Gina B. Nahai.
Yeah, I didn’t know it either. I only found out 10 years ago when a friend who lived in Iran came to L.A. for a visit. Just like I didn’t know, till I was in my mid-20s, that I’m not Iranian. I found that out from a random caller to a Persian-language television program produced in Northridge. Like most others of its kind, the program was anti-regime. The host spent a good deal of time enumerating the crimes of the Islamic Republic, among them its stance toward Israel and the arrest and
In the student lounge behind the North Campus cafeteria at UCLA, the Romanian woman with frosted hair and one too many boyfriends smoked red Marlboros and spun tall tales about how her mother had walked, barefoot and pregnant, across a frozen continent and away from Nicolae Ceausescu’s killers to freedom in America. The handsome history major on a soccer scholarship from England pined after the petite Iranian girl who wouldn’t give him the time of day. The older American man, bald and broke
Every once in a while, someone I know will come up to me and announce that I’ve done it again, written something awful and insulting about the Iranian community in Los Angeles, and, in so doing, embarrassed us all in front of the non-Iranian community in L.A. “You’re lucky you’ve been invited to this dinner,” a friend will say, “everyone is mad at you for your last Jewish Journal article.” Or, just last month: “I had a dinner party last night and all everyone talked about
“So, what do you do?” the doctor asks. “When?” I answer. “Just ... every day.” “You mean ... for work?” “Or otherwise.” “I’m a writer.” “You are?” “Yes.” He’s still waiting. I wait, too. “So ... what else do you do?” What’s wrong with this guy? I wonder. First, he makes me wait in his stuffy, overcrowded waiting room for a whole hour past my appointment time, then he sends in a nurse, then a physician’s assistant to a
I don’t mean to alarm the global scientific community, but I feel I have an obligation, in these nascent days of 2014, to share a potentially disturbing finding I came upon at the end of last year. Ladies and gentlemen: Einstein was wrong. At least one of his theories — the one about the definition of madness — is complete fallacy. I don’t know when he arrived at it, or what kind of green and gullible following he suckered into believing it or how he managed to pound it into the c
Turns out, I have a natural handicap when it comes to eating like normal people. My daughter discovered this when she was in elementary school and forever engaged in a war of attrition over food: She wanted to live on green apples and Lucky Charms; I thought a third item should be added to the diet. A few years into the campaign, she finally asked me, “What cereal did Grandma let you eat when you were a kid?” “I didn’t eat cereal.” “Why not? Was Giti as mean as you are?”