A True Friend of Israel

The Israeli government and its lobbyists will tell us that out of all the preceding Presidents, Bush has been the best friend to Israel. This means he gave Israel money and weapons, turned a blind eye to the so-called Targeted Killings, all while condemning any aggressive action coming from the Palestinians’ side by using the key word of the day, Terrorism.

But what has Bush really achieved in Israel and Palestine? Empty calls for Democracy were mixed with suppression of Palestinian hopes for a viable State. Just add the missing ingredient—inadequate oversight over funds and the ensuing Fatah corruption—and you get the perfect recipe for the rise of Hamas. Rockets from Gaza to Israeli towns continue. Palestinian laborers are denied entry into Israeli territory, which means growing unemployment and desperation for Palestinians and the opening of immigration gates in Israel to illegal workers, who are brought in and kicked out on the basis of cheap-labor supply and demand.

So what has Israel gained from Bush’s friendship? Illegal immigration has given rise to a new frustrated underclass, a battlefield of gangs in Gaza could restart at any time, more rockets, the descent of moderate Palestinians, and the rise of those vowing for struggle. And a big, ugly wall.

A Democratic candidate cannot hide his or her inaction behind slogans like Friendship and Special Relationship. A true friend of Israel will not see Palestinian action and Israeli reaction but a cycle of violence that must be stopped. A true friend will see that half of the Israeli population struggles for peace and that the Jewish vote will follow a strong candidate who will have the chutzpah to say, “The world is tired of inaction. The world is tired of ‘facts on the ground’ settlements, roads, and trains that run through East Jerusalem and cut at the heart of Palestinian hope and Israeli prosperity, the world is tired of people in Israel being afraid to board buses in Tel Aviv and leave for work in Sderot. The world is tired of the word Terrorist.”

The time has come for a true friend of Israel to say, "Mr. Olmert, tear down this wall."

Finally

I worked in construction for the summer when I was sixteen. My first job.

A year later, I lasted two weeks in a Ben and Jerry's. I was fired for wearing my hat backwards.

I was a soldier for three years. I was a bass player. A buss boy. A bartender. I worked at Marks and Spencer for a while, taking plastic off hangers, getting electric shocks every few seconds. Some people have been doing that for years. How insane is that?

I was a temp. A warehouse worker. I was a security guard. I worked on the queen's security team once. She was riding in a chariot and doing her back-hand wave like on TV. Even though I was supposed to face the crowds with my back to her, I just had to see that frickin' wave. You only live once.

I was a mover. A phone salesman. A relocation consultant (they have a name for everything nowadays). Worked in retail for a few years. In a horrible bookstore managed by pseudo Liberals who wore a "International Terrorist" with a picture of Bush t-shirts but were also arrogant, ignorant, and of course, one doesn't have to be anti-Semitic to be a proud lefty, but so many are, so I guess it helps.

I was a state employee, working in a booking station. Saw some crazy shit there. Then, I became a stay-at-home dad. It breaks my heart when he cries, but when he laughs, I feel happiness I never knew existed.

And now, I can finally call myself by another name.

Because after... I don't even want to think how long... After years of postponing and procrastinating and delaying and giving up and knowing at the back of my head that I should, but still didn't... After years of going to sleep angry because I didn't and waking up the next day and--see, it's so easy to postpone it for another day... You know what I mean. It's easier to read than to write. It's easier to play, to watch Lost, to eat, to sleep, to surf the web, to have sex, to surf the web and have sex at the same time, to clean the house, to organize the bookshelves, to play with the dogs, to play with the baby, to download music, to rate movies on Netflix, to jog, to collect how-to-write books than to actually write.

But finally, after all these years, I have a first edit.

Finally, I can call myself a writer.

Spitzer? I Hardly Even Know Her!

I was tagged by StyleSwag with the facts about myself meme. About four months ago. What can you do. This time, it's suitable that I do only embarrassing facts. I call it The Spitzer Meme.

1. I'll never put ads on this blog because money is the root of all evil, but I constantly think of ways of making money online. And I can't think of anything. I want to start a blog or a website that will make people come over and click on ads and buy shit they don't need, and I don't know how. A man can't even give away his soul nowadays?
2. About fifteen years ago, what song was I rocking out to while sliding a 360 on a highway? "Saturday Night's Alright (For Fighting)." Wait, it gets worse.
3. Danced in a cage in Heaven Club in London. I wasn't even paid to do that. I just saw a cage and got in. Who can resist an open cage?
4. Fainted during a Sinead O'Connor concert. Told you it would get worse.
5. Very, very excited about the return of Beauty and the Geek.
6. I don't know much about much, but two things others don't know I do know, which gives me an enormous advantage: I'm good at catching stuff with my mouth. Kind of like a dolphin, but not as smart. I don't smile as much either. I don't trust dolphins. And the second thing I know? The formula for calculating 1+2+3+4+... Here's how you do it: You add 1 to the last number (if it's 100, then we get 101), then multiply it by half of the last number (making the result 101*50=5050). I lost my advantage over you.
7. Sometimes I'm really happy.

Now, if anyone else wants to do the Spitzer, you're welcome, and you'll make me happy and your country proud. I'm tempted to tag you but I'm not ready for the rejection. It's fun, though. You should do it.

What I Do When Honey and Baby Are Away For The Weekend

I Disprove Jung's theory of collective consciousness.

A long time ago, I dreamed I was talking to someone in Russian, and when I woke up I was sure I was able to tap into the world's collective consciousness, and that I knew Russian just as subconsciously I knew everything else anyone has ever known. But then, last night I dreamed I was making a purchase over the phone (sad dreams I have), and I picked up my card and started reading my Visa number: "One, eight, zero--" and then I woke up with horror. A Visa number always begins with a four! Which means my dreams didn't prove anything, and that it was probably not even close to Russian; just some gibberish with a funny accent. Ah, well.

I drive around and get stuck in traffic.

It's okay, as long as I have a camera and a Dunkin' coffee.



I consume too much caffeine.


Which means that if I go to sleep at 2am and I'm too wired to read, I shouldn't say to myself, "Maybe I'll watch that," referring to The Hills Have Eyes. I join the family just after the mutants made them crash their car. I see some shadows in the back and hear some whispers, and I say, "I don't have to watch that. I can watch some frickin' Anderson Cooper instead." But just like the characters just can't stop themselves from being curious, I continue watching. Then I see some more of them, like the mutant girl and her dad chewing on a bone, and again, I yearn for Anderson Cooper's reassuring voice. Right now, I'd even settle for a "This Week At War" marathon. But I keep on watching. The father goes into the gas station and sees the guy in the outhouse, who says he's sorry and then blows his head off, and I know the father is surrounded because they're whispering all around him, and I'm completely shaking like a little girl by that point and I look at the remote and I finally decide, "I'm not going to watch any more of this shit," and with trembling hands I reach for the remote, and meanwhile the father hears the mutants and he starts shooting at the darkness, and I'm thinking, "You're going to run out of bullets, fool!" And finally I get the remote and I want to change a channel but I'm so shaky that I press the Info button instead, and I scream, and you know they're getting closer, and I'm an idiot, and I'll never watch anything but romantic comedies from now on. Then I finally press the right button. Thank you, AC360, thank you, Sanjay Gupta, thank you, Wolf, thank you, Larry, and most of all, thank you Duracell batteries. I hope the father got out of it alright.

I learn that no matter where you sit, Pennsylvania is always a bit to your right.


I'm picking them up in an hour.

I Am Gridiron Gang

I mean, Honey put it on the Netflix queue, which means she does want to see it. It's just that she's not in the mood right now, or she's tired. Probably some weekend morning will be best: Just wake up, watch the movie, and get on with the day. (No need for Special Features. Let's not get obsessed with this thing. We're not eighteen anymore, after all).

Now, there used to be a time when we watched, for example, the entire Arrested Development, staying up all night, maybe even watching an episode twice. But now we have Gridiron Gang.

Watching movies is the last thing on a woman's mind after giving birth, they say. But these things come and go, they also say. And soon, when the third season of Battlestar Galactica comes out, I hope she'll be interested in watching that, as long as it's the weekend. Maybe even take the time to watch some bloopers. What the hell--as long as the baby's asleep, might as well watch a few minutes of previews, too.

Maybe I should just shave.

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In other news, the good folks at Indie Bloggers put up something I wrote a while ago. Thanks. It feels great to know that some of the junk I put down here has the potential to move others. I'm honored.