I Had a Journal When It Was Still Cool to Have One

I had a journal when I was eight years old. 1981. The first entry talks about my parents buying a color TV. Not the first people in the building but thankfully not the last. The second entry talks about a phone call in the middle of the night and my father telling us his uncle was dead. I cried myself to sleep.

Then comes this little fun story. A few of us were playing soccer for a while. Then, a young couple sat on a bench overlooking the field, and started making out. One by one, we left the game and moved to the bench next to the couple. I don’t remember that but I’m sure it happened because I made a drawing of two stick figures on a bench, and the man’s thin stick-figure hand reaches out for the two circles in the middle of the woman-stick-figure’s body.

Then I have a movie review. My mom took my sister and me to see Les Miserables (the Anthony Perkins version), and for about ten pages I retold the story of Jean Valjean. The color TV was a page and a half, my first encounter with death was about a page, and so was my first encounter with the glory of boobies. And a retelling of Les Miserables was ten pages. I needed an editor.

I probably still do.

The diary lasted a month, and then, like in so many other instances, I moved on. Maybe my parents bought me the Commodore 64, or maybe I ran out of pages and didn’t think of asking for another notebook, but there end my written childhood memories.

The Goddesses

One day, when I was about ten, I think, we visited my grandmother, who lived on the third floor in a small rundown apartment building in Tel Aviv. These were changing times in her neighborhood. When my grandparents moved in, it was a neighborhood of middle-aged Eastern European immigrants, many of them Holocaust survivors. Then, with time, the older people moved out of the neighborhood or out of the world, and suddenly my grandma’s house was located in the hippest part of the city.

That’s just a bit of background to explain how come when I was ten I looked out of my grandma’s bathroom window and saw on the second floor of the building next door two young women getting undressed.

It was amazing. They took their time getting undressed and then dressed again, moving from one room to another to try out various clothes, then taking them off again, checking themselves in the mirror, talking to each other naked.

Meanwhile, my grandma was yelling at my mother in French, and my mother, in turn, was asking me to stop running around the house. But I didn’t care. The women were moving from one room to another, so I had to do the same.

Then, when they finished getting dressed, they were no longer goddesses. They became just two women; two adults.

It reminds me of my girlfriend when I was sixteen. I remember the last time she put her shirt on while telling me we were through. I remember, button by button, how she changed from being my girlfriend to being just another person in this big world. With her clothes on, she was now someone who would no longer affect my life, other than through memories of youthful intimacy. And it felt weird, the way a few buttons made all the difference.

A year later, she sent me an anonymous love letter, but that’s another story.

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."

A Story About My Grandfather

My grandfather had this big white beard that made words disappear.

Our family would go to visit my grandparents, my father's parents, and at first it was fine, even fun. We would pray and eat and pray and walk to the synagogue and pray and shake hands with the neighbors, and go home and eat some more, and pray just a little bit more. But then he would call me into his room, close the door behind us, sit me down beside him, and begin talking.

God, I wish I had been able to get what he was saying. I mean, I got a few words here and there, to be sure. Some words did penetrate that beard. I know the basic subject was religious philosophy. I know he sometimes talked about the wonderful service we were both a part of, even though for me synagogue meant staring at the walls, occasionally bending my body like the others to avoid embarrassing him and myself.

In short, my grandfather was this happy Orthodox Jew who liked to discuss philosophy and I was a kid who didn't care. Same old story everywhere you go in the world, pretty much.

But this one was different. I was living in England when I got the late night phone call, telling me he died, that he fell and held his wife's hand before she called the ambulance; that he peacefully asked her to stay a moment with him because he knew he would soon be dead.

Late night phone calls always mean someone is dead.

My mother was on holiday with her sister in Europe when he died, and when she returned, she talked to one of her old friends and told her that when she was away, her husband's father died. In turn, my mother's friend told my mom someone else died that week, a holy man who healed her broken arm.

It's still impossible for me to imagine that all these people saw my grandfather as a holy man. He immigrated to Israel illegally to escape the Nazis, spent some time in British jail, was a cook, a milkman, he got married and had children and grandchildren and great grandchildren, he had a big white beard that held on to bits of food like it knew something we didn't. He loved religion and philosophy. Apparently, he was also a holy man; a healer. Fancy that.

One Day I Cried

I wanted to write another one, this time a dedicated post about what I feel about circumcision, but even after reading this incredible article, I know we'll have to do it. I've talked to people at work, some of them had to do it later in life, whether for medical reasons or because at the age of 27, they were sick of being called Russell. I understand why some people think it's a horrible thing. I understand it all. But at least after talking to other people I know I'm not doing it for some random religious idea, but because I've come to believe it's the right thing to do for Jr.

And if he comes later in life to resent the choices I've made for him, and if later in life he comes to see this as the first of many betrayals, then all I can do is apologize in advance and reiterate my promise to always do what I think is right for him. There's no manual to life but the worst you can do is fail, which isn't a big deal, after all. Now, parenting--that's a different issue. He will trust me to take care of him, to guide him, to teach him, to love him, and to know him as the individual he will become, and failure is not an option.

So with that, I thought it was the right time to reprint this essay I wrote a few years ago. If you've read this far then I know you'll enjoy it because I used to be a better writer then.

One Day I Cried


One day I was playing with a girl from my class. Her name was Meital, and I liked her. This piece is not about her. It's also not about her father, who grabbed me by my ten-year-old neck and lifted me up, moved me around, carried me an inch off the wall, warned me never to come near Meital again, and dropped me on the ground. The piece is about my father, who ten minutes later told Meital's father that if he ever came near me again he would kill him. Meital's father started explaining what had happened, but my father told him to shut up, and that the conversation was over.

It's the same guy who laughed when I burnt my finger and screamed when I was four-years-old. I'm still scared of fire. The same guy that embarrassed me for years because he insisted on wearing a stupid furry hat when he started going bald. The other kids used to call me "The Russian." The same guy who told me every night to brush my teeth, until one night I asked him to say "Good night" once in a while instead of "Brush your teeth," and he smiled and said, "Good night." Then, when I walked to my bedroom, he shouted, "And brush your teeth," and laughed.

One day, in the car, he told me a story. A fairy tale, perhaps. A young Prince was having a ball in the palace. While he was standing by the door, welcoming his guests, he accidentally farted. Yes, farted. Everyone started whispering: "Did you hear that? Who...? You think...?" After all, the future of the country was at stake. Suddenly, a poor young woman, one of the Prince's maids, approached the group of distinguished guests, lifted her head, and said, "I was the one who farted. It was I." Naturally, the Prince was so moved by this gesture, that he married the woman the next day, and they lived happily ever after.

In my father's tale, the Prince married the maid because she said she farted. I mean, this guy doesn't make any sense.

One day we were watching television, and he said the conductor in a weekend talk-show orchestra used to be with him in the army. Then, every Friday, the family would sit in front of the television at 8 pm, and every time David Kriboshe's face appeared on the screen, my father would say he was with him in the army. I thought it was sad that people saw themselves in the context of others, and I thought I wouldn't be like my father when I grew up. I would be somebody. I would be the reference point.

When I'm a father, I thought, I would hug my son every night and tell him how much I loved him; and I would never hit him; and I wouldn't spend family meals alone in front of the television; and I would always know how old my son was, and who his teachers were; and I would never wear silly hats to embarrass him; and I would set a good example.

And one day I got home from the army and cried because my friend died from a landmine in Lebanon. My father took the backpack off my shoulder, put it away in my room, and asked me to follow him to the car. We drove to Jaffa and sat on a bench in the old city, overlooking the peaceful skyline of Tel Aviv. We sat there, and I cried, and he hugged me and cried, too, because his son was suffering, and he couldn't handle this first experience of watching his son carrying so much pain. And I realized nothing was his fault, because he didn't know better; because there was probably a moral in that story, and she was now a princess; and he was just worried about my teeth, because the dentist took away his when he was twenty; and I could see the helplessness in his sad eyes, and I realized he was crying in my arms just like I was crying in his.

Fifteen. Summer Vacation.

I was fifteen. It was summer vacation. I was sitting outside talking with three friends, when someone mentioned the secret everyone else knew.

"You know an electric shock? Well, it's like that but it starts at your feet and quickly climbs up all the way to your head."

"Why would I want to have an electric shock?"

"No, no. It's like that but it feels good. You just feel the electricity in your body but it doesn't hurt or anything."

"And all of you do that?"

"Where have you been? We've been doing that for a year now."
"I've been doing it since I was twelve."
"You have to try it."

So I went home and filled up the bath, thinking, How would I know when to stop? But you find out soon enough, don't you?

More Army Stories 1991-1994

We emptied out his aftershave and peed inside the bottle. I took this photo a second before he realized what was going on.

Honey wishes I still looked like that. I think when I shave my head she still sees that person. Suspended disbelief I think they call it. I should shave my head more often.

My parents came to visit me one Saturday in the desert. It may have been the first time my father drove on a Sabbath. There wasn’t much to say, and if there was, we didn’t know how to say it. My enthusiasm for the army was gone by then, and I still had two and a half more years to go and two funerals to attend.

A Life-Changing Moment

On my twenty-third birthday, five months after I left the army and six months before I was supposed to start University, I received two postcards in the mail. One was from a friend on a trip to India, the other from a friend who moved to London, both telling me I had to join them. I remember holding the two postcards, one in each hand, rereading them and trying to make up my mind.

One postcard described sitting on top of mountains in India watching the sun rise, feeling lonely and complete. The other friend wrote about insane parties and new friends and about a band he had started and about being a part of the London music scene.

A month later I moved to London. I went to the parties and met the new friends. I learned to play bass guitar and joined the band. I dyed my hair purple. I found myself in the first ever “Reclaim the Streets” demonstration, and just before the police came, left to get my ears pierced. I called my parents and told them I wasn't coming back. I went to Glastonbury Festival and saw the sun rise over the green hills. I fell in and out of love. Moving further from the city and forced to commute, I started reading on the Tube. On a trip to Amsterdam, sitting alone in a coffee shop, I wrote my first short story. I danced in a cage in Heaven club, and made out with drunk girls in Camden Town. I found out things. I sat in a room and listened to Mogway and Beethoven and stared at a world map, watching the oceans move slowly with the music until morning came and the world stood still. I met my American Honey and here I am in Baltimore.

What if I chose differently? And maybe even if I had chosen to go to India rather than London I would still be sitting here, with my Honey sleeping upstairs, struggling in her sleep to stretch her legs because Buddy and Ginger are so goddamn needy. Maybe I didn’t have a life changing moment on my twenty-third birthday because no matter what, I would have been sitting here at this exact same spot, writing this exact same sentence.

The Forum

A friend of mine did the Forum. Maybe it has other names in different countries but it’s the same thing: You go there and admit you’re afraid of people and then you discover you are merely a part of a whole and that everyone is fragile and that you should confront your childhood fears instead of ignoring them, and then you call everyone you’ve ever feared and hated (which means everyone you've ever known) and you tell them, “I forgive you.”

So pretty soon people started to get really annoyed by her forgiving them.

But her life got much better. Facing the world with no fears, she started a business, got a divorce (she later called her husband to tell him she forgave him), rented a place by herself, quit smoking, and exercised.

These things don’t usually last, and soon she was back to her old all-too-human self. When you’re a part of a religion it’s easier to adhere to certain guidelines, but when you’ve just learned something and then you're thrown into the world, all it takes is that one experience you didn't prepare for, and you go back to what you know and trust, fearing people and keeping your feelings inside.

I think at one point in my life, after I was fired from my job and started reading The Golden Sayings of Epictetus, I was also on my way to come to terms with the world, but shit happens and before I knew it I was getting angry at people for stupid stuff and getting offended because I lost the little humility I had gained after getting fired. Like Flannery O’Connor said, we could all have been good people if there was someone there to shoot us every minute of our lives.

It’s not easy, living right. Or maybe it’s the easiest thing in the world.

My First Cigarette

On a routine patrol in Lebanon, a friend of mine stepped on a Hezbollah landmine and died along with five other soldiers. Two weeks later we were sent to that same spot to prove the IDF could not be deterred. My transformation into an outsider with no trust in authority began during that briefing.

But I went into Lebanon like I was told to do, and walked around the beautiful land filled with unexploded landmines from a thousand years of war. Lost in my thoughts, I walked in a straight line, trampling over fences and crop on my way to nowhere.

Then I felt my right leg stuck. My left leg was free but a tight wire was stretched over my right leg and I suddenly realized I was going to die. To this day I’m not sure if there was any way for me to stop or if I just let myself continue because after two years in the army I just didn’t care anymore. So I pulled my right leg up and waited for the end.

Back in the camp, I lay on my bed and thought about it all, or maybe I wasn’t thinking at all. A new guy came over and asked me about the patrol. He offered me a Marlboro Red.

On the Israel-Lebanon War and the Possible US Escalation in Iraq (or, Just Say No)

A short while ago I wrote a post about my army service in the West Bank. This wasn't simply a redemption piece but also an attempt to reflect on the situation American soldiers face in Iraq. Like them, I was certain I was doing the right thing, and like them, I thought everything I was doing was done in the (self-)defense of my country. Similarly, the implications of the recent Israeli war in Lebanon should be considered with Iraq in mind.

Like the US, the Israeli army was undoubtedly going in with superior military force for what was supposed to be a short offensive, and like in Iraq, it was immediately shown to be a mistake. Many Israeli soldiers died, attacks on Israeli civilians increased, and radical Islamic forces legitimized their relative control. A month into the conflict, the Israeli government was forced to choose what many considered the best of two evils: a retreat or an escalation.

Now, as Americans are divided about the future in Iraq, and as Democratic hopefuls are still afraid of saying the US should leave immediately, it is important to see what happened after the Israeli army left Lebanon. First, and most importantly, the number of casualties on both sides, including civilians, was about 2000 for the one month of conflict (between mid-July and mid-August of 2006). There is no reason to think this trend would have decreased if the fighting had continued at the same pace, and an escalation would have undoubtedly only increased the number of fatalities.

Second, as one of the reasons for remaining in Iraq is a flawed domino theory that scares us into thinking a retreat would destroy American prestige and, more importantly, its power of deterrence, we can first look at the current situation, where the war has created a diminishing American military might, encouraging other nations to rise up, at least rhetorically, against US hegemony. And second, we need to look again at Israel. Retreating after one month from the Lebanon mistake did not diminish Israeli hegemony in the region. If anything, Israel has since regained the power it had lost during the war. Moreover, while the war helped legitimize the Hezbollah, its victory did not create the nightmare scenario the Israeli government was advancing before the war to convince the public this was a no-choice war. Neither Hezbollah nor Syria have any more control over the Lebanese government then they did before, and the risk of Israeli destruction or of future attacks has not grown.

When Democratic hopefuls are asked about their solution for the war, they often either avoid the question by stating the obvious (It's Bush's mess), or endorse a phased, "dignified" withdrawal. This is not enough, not anymore. When the Republican keyboard warriors come with catchy, meaningless slogans like Cut-and-Run, the answer should be Study the Israel-Lebanon War. Sure, it's not as catchy, but it happens to be the truth. When the Israeli government chose retreat over escalation, it put the safety of its citizens first and political prestige second. The future leaders of America should have the courage to do the same.

My Army Service in the West Bank

During a patrol in Nablus, three of us were walking in a narrow alley when two large bricks suddenly dropped from the roof. One brick hit my foot. We quickly took cover and scanned the area. The first thing I noticed was the empty vegetable stand. The friendly, old vendor wasn’t there; he must have been warned, I thought. When we finally walked out, the old man slowly turned the corner and greeted us as he usually did. I slapped him in the face. No one said a word; it was as if it had been the natural thing to do, to randomly slap an old man in the face.

At other times, we would be told to search for wanted Palestinians. We were never told what they were accused of, and I suspect most of them knew even less. We were just given maps of the city and told to arrest individuals in specific addresses, usually about twenty a day. We blindfolded them, put them in handcuffs, and pushed them into a waiting van, where we would kick them in the stomach.

We were told this was nothing compared to the good old days, before the world media started covering the Intifada. In the good old days soldiers used to make Palestinians sing “My Golani,” the army brigade’s anthem. Soldiers used to paint Palestinians’ donkeys in green and yellow, the brigade’s colors. The good old days were a free-for-all of torture, theft, and humiliation.

We used to open doors to random houses and do a search. This meant putting everyone in one room with one soldier guarding the family with a gun aimed at their heads, with young children crying, grandparents pleading, mothers holding them tightly, and fathers sitting defiant to maintain what was left of their pride. The rest of us walked room by room, opening drawers and throwing their contents on the floor, emptying closets, throwing antique lamps on the walls and breaking them, stepping on beddings with muddy shoes and complaining about the smell. In one drawer I found a letter an eighteen year-old Palestinian wrote to a pen pal in Denmark. He wrote about his wish that one day the violence would end and a Palestinian State would rise alongside Israel. I thought he was trying to fool her into coming to visit him so he could use her to transfer explosives into Israeli cities.

One time we were walking in the middle of the road when a car turned a corner and immediately stopped. When we reached the car and moved to the side, one of us remained in the center of the road and simply climbed the hood of the car with his gun aimed at the driver’s face. He continued walking up to the roof, then back down, when the driver rolled the window down and asked in Hebrew, “What the hell are you doing?” Apparently this was a secret elite unit of soldiers who were dressed like Palestinians, infiltrating the city to find out information about attacks. “Oh,” said my friend, “I thought you were Arabs.” Everyone laughed.

Sometimes in Nablus I used to shoot pigeons out of boredom. Others shot mosque speakers.

The only Arabic phrases I know after three years of service in Nablus and in Gaza are “Open the door,” “Turn the car off,” “Give me your papers,” and “Stop or I’ll shoot.”

My Book of Poetry

There’s a notebook of poems I wrote when I was seven, which, to my eternal embarrassment, my dad insists on reading to anyone I bring home when I visit. The poems rhyme. They’re filled with speaking animals and even stranger humans. Surreal little rhymes about popular culture, my family, and my life as a struggling seven-year-old. They have colorful drawings.

“Oh, no, Dad. Please don't,” I say. We were having a good time, talking and laughing and drinking coffee, why did he have to ruin everything with the stupid notebook?

But when I hear him proudly read the words of the young poet I can recall the naïve expressions of an uncorrupted mind and the pleasing simplicity of a life without metaphors, and I know that no matter what I write in the future, I had already passed my prime by the time I was eight.

My Aunt's Butt

When I was a kid, my aunt used to go around her house naked. I still remember the nausea I felt every time I visited my cousins. I remember a tan line above a butt, and I remember feeling uncomfortable.

She was a recent widow, still a young woman in what top scientists (including NASA engineers) say is the peak of a woman’s sexuality. There were many “uncles.” The only light she had in her room was a red bedside lamp. Not much subtlety there.

I wonder if there’s a hidden trauma somewhere in that whole story. Wouldn’t that be great? To be able to discover a trauma after twenty-five years and be able to blame my aunt for my failures? She doesn’t necessarily have to take the blame for all of it; some of my failures I could still pin on my dad, but maybe some sexual dysfunctions could be attributed to her? That skinny white butt must be responsible for something.

Tali Fahima is Free

“You don't make peace with friends. You make it with very unsavory enemies.” -- Yitzhak Rabin


In a holy land far away, 30 year-old Tali Fahima is free again, after spending more than two years in jail for "meeting enemy agents and passing information to them." Although Fahima admitted to this charge in a plea deal, this was quite a reduction from the initial charge of planning a terrorist attack in Israel. If anything, the reduction in charges and the relatively quick release of a person initially branded a first-rate traitor make Fahima's side of the story seem very plausible. She admits to meeting the Islamic Jihad member, Zakaria Zubeidi, because she had been curious to learn about her supposed enemy, but denies involvement in terrorist attacks. She also denies the Israeli Secret Service portrayal of her as a "terrorist's whore" who was, according to Israeli media reports pregnant with Zubeidi's child.

After the deliberate propaganda attacks on Fahima's character, done with the aim of delegitimizing all attempts for grass-roots conversations with perceived enemies. In a place with relatively justified fear, fueled by suicide bombings, Hezbollah rockets, and in part by a long history of persecution, it's no wonder many in Israel still see Fahima as a back-stabbing traitor. But in a place with so much propaganda, where in fact, so much is determined upon public opinion and public support for a military draft to get soldiers to maintain the Palestinian territories, it's refreshing to find many supporters of Fahima's attempt to understand for herself what the hell is really going on around her, and what is being done to others in her name.

Here are some translated comments from the Maariv newspaper website. This is just a selection to show both sides. In reality most comments were written against Fahima, but as you'll see, there's not much content in these comments. A Right-Wing nutcase is the same everywhere in the world:

Not only she's a traitor, she's also ugly and stupid.

A real hero who has paid dearly for her struggle against the occupation.

Only an Arab will touch this ugly monkey.

An amazing woman. A true idealist.

If you care so much about Palestinians why don't you just become a Muslim?

Tali is a special woman with real principals and a true wish to reach a peaceful solution.

No Jew wanted her so she went to an Arab.

Well done for the courage to walk this difficult path for what her beliefs. From the beginning it was clear she was didn't do anything wrong. She was never a threat to Israeli security, only to the way Israelis think.

Just looking at her makes me sick.

Tali, well done for your courage to take on yourself the obvious consequences of walking tall against the grain, the courage of declaring the emperor has no clothes and the entire history of Israeli security is nothing but a deliberate crime, the courage to ignore the right-wing, militant, blind public, the courage to try to understand the motives behind those being occupied sacrificing their doomed lives, the courage to stand against the Israeli Secret Service and their media partners, the courage to expose the Israeli Secret Service torture mechanism, the courage to pay the price alone. You deserve all the praise you get.

Anyone who opposes the policy of air rockets on Palestinian militants is risking the life of my family and my own life. We should have killed the traitor terrorist Fahima.

The Toy Store and the Tree

My dad has always wanted to open a toy store. He still talks about it, how one day he’ll open a toy store like the one he used to go to once a week to get my sister and me second-hand toys; old-school stuff we probably threw away, not knowing the value of nostalgia: bouncy things, and metal things, and springy things with peeling (poisonous?) colors. If I’m ever rich I’ll buy him a toy store where he could sit all day and experience his own childhood again, before he was made to know what religion he should follow (Orthodox Judaism), what political affiliation (Likud), who were his enemies (Palestinians), and what he should pursue in life (everything). Life was a tin soldier with arms and legs stuck to his body, and a key in his back that, when turned, made marching music.

When I was a kid my mom made me promise to buy her a tree she could sit under and enjoy her life. It had white flowers that smelled good. I’m not being over-sentimental here, remembering a conversation I had with my mom more than twenty years ago because of my shame of unfulfilled human potential. No. She actually reminds me of that conversation every once in a while. “You still haven’t gotten me that tree,” she says.

Maybe the store and the tree had become symbols of the peace my parents had always wanted but could never achieve because they were taught, like everyone else, to chase insignificant things like power and respect. But behind these things there’s a life they had wanted but will never get to live: a quiet, simple life, playing with tin soldiers and sitting under a fragrant tree with white flowers, the unattainable gifts of a grateful son.

On Sand and God

When I was eight, after playing soccer for an hour, I lost the key to the apartment and thought my parents would be mad. I sat on the sandy soccer field after a long hour of searching and I cried. Then I came up with a great idea. If God knew everything, that meant he knew where everything was. So I made a deal with God.

If I eat this pile of sand, Dear God, you will reveal the location of my keys.

It was simple and fair, although I don’t know why God would want me to eat sand other than to show his superiority, which is fair enough. So I ate sand and still didn’t find the keys. My parents weren’t that angry though. Still, I discovered two things that day:

1. Eating sand is gross but it won’t kill you.
2. There is no God.

On Not Growing Up

My mother woke up when she heard me cry. I was nine-years-old and sad. I can’t tell for sure what it was but I remember telling my mother I was sad because I wasn’t a kid anymore. She said it was okay, and that I was still a child and that I still had a lot of time before I stopped being a child.

Maybe earlier that day I was expected to do something I felt I couldn’t do and that brought about this need to remain a child forever. Maybe. And maybe I still wish that could happen, to live a life of no consequence and no responsibility.

Then when I was getting older all I wanted was the responsibility. I wanted to be trusted, to be counted on, to prove the world I was an adult. Maybe that’s why I was eager to join the army.

After the army I was so disenchanted with the adult world that recognition by society had suddenly become a bad thing, and the only way for me to live was to revert to a time of lonely insignificance; the childhood state I still experience.

The Antigravitation Man 04

I guess it feels good to know my friends back home still do weird stuff.

That's the problem with modern art, though. You don't know what's post-modern and what's post-modern-self-aware-irony.

Enjoy.

The Day I Stopped Playing with My Commodore 64

Finally, at the end of the date she got tired of waiting. “Can I kiss you good night?”

I lowered my head and offered her my cheek.

I was sixteen and aware of many things about the world: I knew there was inequality and that governments were working to maintain the status quo to benefit the elites, I knew religion was invented by people and not handed down to us by God, and I knew people often died for nothing, but I knew absolutely nothing about girls and dating and all that nasty stuff. From six to twelve, I played soccer all day. Then when I was twelve my parents bought me a Commodore 64, and that became my life. So when she asked if she could kiss me I offered her my cheek.

The Forbidden Forest, Manic Mansion, Defender of the Crown, Bruce Lee, Exploding Fist, World Games, Winter Games, Karateka, Sentinel, M.U.L.E., Elite, Ghetto Blaster, California Games, Lode Runner, Alter Ego, BC’s Quest, G.I. Joe, Kung Fu Master, Ghost ‘N’ Goblins, Cauldron, Law of the West, Football Manager, One on One, Raid Over Moscow.

Looking at these titles, it’s really no wonder I didn’t leave the house. There were giant spiders to kill, lands to conquer, evil thugs to floor, mules to buy (yes!), and Soviet landmarks to destroy.

So when she asked if she could kiss me I gave her my cheek. Luckily, she thought it was cute.