THIS IS WHAT I'M TALKIN' ABOUT

Okay, so recently I made mention that Mormons and what I perceive to be their weird religious beliefs kind of freak me out and I know that might sound religiously intolerant of me, but when I was perusing Dooce today she had a link to this article from the Daily Herald:

(Damn, I still can't figure out how to link)

Sunday, April 29, 2007
Convention ends with Satan and immigrants

CALEB WARNOCK - Daily Herald
Utah County Republicans ended their convention on Saturday by debating Satan's influence on illegal immigrants.

The group was unable to take official action because not enough members stuck around long enough to vote, despite the pleadings of party officials. The convention was held at Canyon View Junior High School.

Don Larsen, chairman of legislative District 65 for the Utah County Republican Party, had submitted a resolution warning that Satan's minions want to eliminate national borders and do away with sovereignty.

In a speech at the convention, Larsen told those gathered that illegal immigrants "hate American people" and "are determined to destroy this country, and there is nothing they won't do."

Illegal aliens are in control of the media, and working in tandem with Democrats, are trying to "destroy Christian America" and replace it with "a godless new world order -- and that is not extremism, that is fact," Larsen said.

At the end of his speech, Larsen began to cry, saying illegal immigrants were trying to bring about the destruction of the U.S. "by self invasion."

Republican officials then allowed speakers to defend and refute the resolution. One speaker, who was identified as "Joe," said illegal immigrants were Marxist and under the influence of the devil. Another, who declined to give her name to the Daily Herald, said illegal immigrants should not be allowed because "they are not going to become Republicans and stop flying the flag upside down. ... If they want to be Americans, they should learn to speak English and fly their flag like we do."

Senator Howard Stephenson, R-Draper, spoke against the resolution, saying Larsen, whom he called a "true patriot and a close friend," was embarrassing the Republican Party.

"I agree with 95 percent of this resolution but it has some language that is divisive and not inspiring other people to its vision," he said. "This only gives fodder to the liberal media to give negative attention to the Republican Party."

Joel Wright, a member of the Cedar Hills City Council, was booed as he opposed the resolution.
"This might be the most divisive issue in the Republican Party," he said. "I support President Bush but he needs to support this issue harder."

When Wright said "the economic benefit (of illegal immigration) outweighs the downside" he was jeered. He warned that the Republican Party of California had "killed themselves" by taking a hostile stance against illegal aliens.

He also said the LDS Church has studied the issue and tried to determine whether illegal aliens could be given temple recommends and allowed to serve missions but "gave up" because the issue was too complex. He ended by saying "President Bush needs to fix this now" and was booed again.

Larsen was allowed to finish the debate with a one-minute speech.

"If the Democrats take over the country, we will be dead, and we will have abortion and partial-birth abortion and the Republican Party will go into extinction," he said. "Nancy Pelosi and the ACLU would oppose this (resolution)."

A member of the audience moved that the convention suspend its rules to allow the "objectionable part" of Larsen's resolution to be stricken, retaining only the final paragraphs of the resolution, which condemn illegal immigration. Eventually party officials counted all delegates in attendance, only to discover that, with 299, they were about 30 short of a quorum and could take no action.

"I did ask people to stay so we could have this discussion," said Senator Curt Bramble, R-Provo, who chaired the convention. Bramble had earlier asked those gathered not to thwart a discussion on the resolution, saying it would be "good for the party."

In other business, those gathered voted against removing some of the party's leadership.
Letters supporting the re-election of party chairwoman Marian Monnahan and secretary Susan Bramble were mailed in envelopes bearing the party's return address, causing delegate Russell Sias to demand they be removed from office. A spokesperson for Alexander's Print Advantage, which handled the mailing, spoke at the convention, saying employees had mistaken put the address on the envelopes and the company took full responsibility for the snafu.

In a speech, Enid Greene, state Republican Party chair, announced to applause that she will remarry in a few months. Greene's first marriage came to an infamous end during her tenure in the U.S. House of Representatives when her husband, Joe Waldholtz, who was her campaign manager, was charged with embezzling. He eventually pled guilty to campaign fraud and other charges.

Greene said she was disappointed in BYU professors who protested Dick Cheney's visit to campus, calling them "self-appointed intellectuals."

"I'm not calling for BYU to fire them but if no one signs up for their classes ..." she said. "If they say the Vice President doesn't have anything to say we want to hear, I'm not interested in having my daughter learn from them."

All of the speakers praised those gathered. Lt. Governor Gary Herbert said Utah County Republicans are "guided by correct principles" and are the "best of the best" of the Republican Party.

Bramble assailed those who would called the local Republican Party "broken," saying the party was accountable and accomplishing good work, including the approval of school vouchers and granting UVSC university status.

Congressman Chris Cannon and Utah Attorney General Mark Shurtleff both received a standing ovation from some members of the audience. Cannon said Democrats have just as many corrupt party members as the Republicans but the media does not report Democratic ethics violations.
Shurtleff said that while Americans are divided on the war in Iraq, Salt Lake Mayor Rocky Anderson should not refer to President Bush as a war criminal.

Caleb Warnock can be reached at 443-3263 or

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cwarnock@heraldextra.com.This story appeared in The Daily Herald on page B1.

This brought to mind my viewing of the movie Borat. A couple of weeks ago Adi and I rented it and the whole time we were watching it he kept saying, "This isn't real. This is all staged."

He is so sweet and naive like that.

There were parts of the movie that made me laugh but most of it made me feel kind of sick. I know the people of Kazhakstan were upset, but I think the people of the United States might've been a tad more disturbed. The real freaks in that movie were everyday Americans reavealed in all of their obese, ignorant, rascist, self righteous fundamentalist Christian glory.

It freaked me out just like this article does.

I visited Salt Lake City a few years back and it's truly a beautiful city. I was unsettled the whole time. The people were unfailingly pleasant but it felt somewhat like being in a city full of animatronic people created by some kind of Mormon Disney overlord. There was a disconcerting homogeneity that was couched in bland, lemming like sameness. It kind of had that Stepford vibe.

I know that not all of the people living in Utah are like this. In fact it's definitely crossed my mind that this could be more of a Republican thing than a Mormon thing.

Or this could just be that when you add Mormon + Republican it equals Batshit Crazy.

SINCE YOU ASKED...

I love good food, I'm a good cook and I adore fine dining therefore it's very difficult for me to go out and eat just anywhere. It's the absolute worst to go out to dinner and pay top dollar for food that I know damn well would've tasted better had I made it at home.

My favorite places to eat are pretty much holes in the wall where the food is absolutely wonderful and the ambience and "scene" are non-existent. Los Angeles is a great place for restaurants like this. All the different cultures afford me multiple opportunities to pursue tatalizing gustatory experiences.

I adore Jonathan Gold's book CounterIntelligence because not only does he point me to places that I would never go (often in neighborhoods where I'm frightened to park my car), but his writing is divine. He just won the Pullitzer! For FOOD writing! That's how good he is.

Because it is my prediliction to eat good food rather than to ponder the see and be scene, I had sort of forgotten that Los Angeles can also be a mecca of mediocrity when it comes to those restaurants that celebrities are lured into during the first weeks they're open so that there is lots of press and the impression is created that the restaurant is "hot". Dolce and Spider Club come to mind when I think of places like this - places where you pay lots of money to eat so-so food in room full of people who are would be excited to breathe the same air as Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie, two young women who don't appear to eat so why anyone would follow their lead is beyond me.

There are also a lot of wonderful "foodie" restaurants in LA which are usually populated by old people. I don't know why this is true but it is. It's gotten to the point where if I don't see bald heads and bifocals when I walk through the door I seriously worry about what's coming out of the kitchen.

The other night I went out with a friend who wanted to go someplace where we might meet men. Ahem. The only men I've EVER met in a restaurant were bartenders or waiters, or on one occasion a busboy, but I figured it was better than a bar. I don't get my drink on so well anymore but I do eat dinner so this felt like a compromise. She could look for men and I could dine.

She mentioned The Lodge, a fairly new place in Beverly Hills. I really should've listened to that little intuitive voice in my head that said, "um, no," but I didn't. The place is modeled after a ski lodge and it is dark and cozy and comfy looking when you walk in. I think it used to be a coffee shop or pancake house and the lay out of the tables in the dining room pricked my memory of poassibly having a short stack there many, many years ago, but we ate in the bar. Because of the whole man meeting agenda.

As we walked through the mostly empty dining room I noted the low light glistening from a bald pate here and there and this made me optimistic. There was also a greasy pony tail sitting with a platinum blond that was pushing her food around on her plate, but she looked like a non-eater so I repressed the urge to flee to my favorite taco truck at Hoover and Pico.

I have to say that the wine list is quite good and although they were out of the Kunnin Zinfandel that I wanted, the Strange Syrah that I ended up getting was amazing. The food was not so good. I ordered the skirt steak and substituted sweet potato fries (my favorite). The meat was okay, a bit too seasoned without enough char to burn it off, but otherwise edible. The sweet potato fries on the other hand were a massive disappointment. They were bland! How is that possible? Where the steak had too much seasoning the fries had none. All I could taste was the oil they'd been fried in. I was sad.

My friend has been suffering from severe food allergies so she's pretty much eating steak or chicken with nothing on it and she'd ordered the Chicken Milanese. Now granted we didn't really know what that would be, but what showed up breaded and fried and it was perched like a hockey puck on the mountain of shiny sauteed spinach she'd requested instead of mashed potatoes.

Yuck.

We sent it back.

It's a good thing that our really nice waiter was also really patient.

Now you may be wondering about the man meeting. There were definitely people pouring into the bar. Mostly people who looked like they'd be tickled to hang out with Lindsey Lohan. Throughout our meal there was a tall, slender guy with dark hair who was lingering and looking, okay staring, at us. When my friend got up to go to the bathroom he made his move.

I've known my friend, we'll call her Jane, for years and I am used to the amount of attention she gets out in public. She's quite pretty and has a stunning body which motivates men to make utter asses out of themselves. She has always handled the attention with aplomb and often used to remind me of a cat playing with a mouse out in the garden. So this guy asks me if my friends name is Jane and I smile and tell him that it is.

He's actually very sweet without the usual predatory vibe that most of the men she attracts give off like radiant heat. He says he remembers her from about 10 years ago. I smile and nod. He asks how I enjoyed dinner and I tell him I am pretty much underwhelmed, but that I'm a food snob so don't mind me. He asks for more information like what I had and what didn't I like and I'm thinking that he is just killing time waiting for her to come back to the table.

Except that he kind of starts making excuses like, well you ate in the bar and ordered skirt steak and very slowly, excruciatingly slowly, I'm sad to say, it dawns on me that this guy may own the restaurant.

And of course he does.

I was completely mortified and I felt really bad for telling the truth although if I owned a restaurant I would want people to tell me what they really thought. He was actually very sweet about it and said he was glad I'd said something. He also said that if we came back and ate in the resaurant we would like the food better, but I'm thinking that's probably not so. At least not in my case because whoever is in the kitchen is cooking for both locations and I was not impressed with the foot that was being put in that food.

When Jane came back from the bathroom he was very sweet to her and seemed like an eminently meetable man because she doesn't really care what she eats.

VIOLENT FLAMES!

I recently stumbled across a blog which has held my attention for more than 5 minutes. I find myself mostly so bored by what people write on their blogs. There are exceptions - UndercoverBlackman, ClizBiz, ShyOneLung, but these are people I know and I am endlessly interested in what they have to say on or off the net. The other people though? The one's that everyone else loves to read? I don't love so much.

There is SalamiTsunami who makes me laugh, but after reading him for the last couple years I don't feel that I know him much better now than when I started and I like for my relationships to go somewhere, even the one sided, voyeuristic ones that I have with complete strangers on the internet. Like Plain Layne - God I loved her. A lesbian living in Minnesota, working for some big corporation doing some kind of programming work. Turns out she was a figment of some guys imagination. He had a heart problem and couldn't get out much so he made up this person and gave her a blog and shared all of her drama and problems with the whole wide web and I was fascinated.

It actually figures that Plain Layne was not real because real people are for the most part kind of boring. I guess this makes sense because the people I find the most interesting are out in the world living their interestingness and do not have time to write about it everyday on the internet.

Except for the "MommyBloggers" a group of women that seem to have come under fire lately. I was reading Dooce back when she was pregnant and I really like the way she writes and her stories about growing up Mormon. The Mormons have always been a mystifying group of people to me. Kind of scary in that hillbilly way with all their strange beliefs and multi-wife households. Donny Osmond was a Mormon and so was Elliot this kid in my elementary school and from that limited exposure I gathered that along with having mysterious swimming pools in their church the Mormons also bred people with thick heads of hair and toothsome grins.

Anyway, back to the MommyBloggers. It was while reading a some article online, I think about Kathy somebody who didn't go to a speaking engagement because of threats that she'd received from other bloggers and they intereviewed Dooce, one of the most famous mommybloggers and she mentioned that someone was doing a parody of her website and how it upset her but she decided not to put energy into it and if I could fucking remember how to link stuff on here I would do so now.... but suffice to say that her mention of such a site piqued my interest and I did a search for Dooce parody and found....

ViolentAcres.com

Written by an anonymous young woman in her early 30s who was pretty pointedly pissing on the monthly newsletter that La dooce writes to her daughter Leta I was intrigued to the point where I spent probably an hour reading the site from the beginning. I get why people would be affronted by what V as she refers to herself (I pondered whether her name might be Veronica or Vanessa and then realized that it probably referenced V in Violent) writes. She doesn't hold back and she doesn't worry about being PC or whether or not people get their feelings hurt.

She is often hysterically funny as she wields her caustic keyboard. And she is often raising points that are true even if it makes me uncomfortable to read them. Her most salient point about the mommy bloggers, the idea that putting photos of your small child, and chronicles of their activities, out into the wild world of whackjobs known as the internet is pretty much abuse, strikes a chord with me because I am naturally paranoid and will not go into chat rooms because my assumption is that the person I am chatting with is not really Lance71, but actually some fat hairy naked guy named Bruce living in his mother's basement along with the bodies of hapless internet friends. It's not a far leap for me to imagine Bruce developing big, insane love for one of these juicy, adorable children and/or their mommies and come out of his cave to get them.... okay, end of tangent. What V objects to most, or at least this is what I get from her rants is that it's not fair to objectify your child for financial gain when they have no control over how this content will affect their lives in the future. I had never actually thought about that before - I mean it's one thing to post pictures on a photosharing site that's private so only people who know you can see - sort of a high tech photo album that Bubby Rina can look at across the country. It's another thing completely to throw your life open to just anyone who's cruising by.

The internet makes me nervous and I have never wanted to get feedback from this site for that reason. I don't write here so that people will read it and like me and give me positive affirmation that my life has meaning. I write here because I'm fucking lazy and I can type faster than I write with a pen on the page and this is basically a place to journal. I don't check stats because I don't know how and I think that's a good thing. I have no idea what Technorati is. My friends come here to find out what I'm doing because I've become so ADD or maybe it's just lazy, that talking on the phone and staying focused on a conversation is just too much effort.

The more I read V the more insight I got into why she has such strong feelings that she was motivated to write scathingly - I am talking major flames - about the mommies. She's had an interesting life with more than her share of the shit end of the stick. I think the reason I like her and continue to read her is that she doesn't define her present by her past experiences where one could say that she was a victim. Because any abused, neglected child is indeed a victim, and so many of these children continue to be victims throughout their lives. I know a lot of these people because my dad worked in social services and I saw the adult lives wrought from that kind of trauma and the cycle of abuse.

It takes a certain kind of strength and a dark sense of humor to survive and go on to thrive and create good things for yourself. Her post today addresses the mind of the abused child and boy did she hit that nail on the head. It is mind boggling how a horribly abused child will still go back to the their abuser and beg him or her to love them. I had no idea until I started working with the kids in the LA foster system as a volunteer. No one has any idea until they're looking at a kid covered in cigarette burns who runs into the arms of the mother that burned her when has come for a visit - a big fat woman in polyester stretch pants covered in food stains with a cigarette dangling from her lips.

So, although V makes me cringe with some of the things she writes, for example this sample from her entry titled Retard Genocide:

A group of friends and I were at a baseball game one afternoon. A Mother and her retarded kid squeezed into the bleacher we were sitting on and parked next to my friend. The retarded kid starting going through my friend’s purse and opening all her little make-up compacts while my friend hysterically tried to snatch them back. The Mother of the tard just blithely watched the game…apparently unaware of the havoc that was taking place.
“Oh my God, my lipstick!” she pleaded.
“She’s going to get boogers in your blush,” I warned.
“Oh God, that foundation cost me $140,” She cried.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I screamed into the crisp, cold afternoon air, “LADY! CONTROL YOUR TARD!”

I will continue to look forward to what she's got to say because agree with it or not she certainly expresses her opinion with flair and flames. I just really hope that she's not someone's fictional conceit, or some fat naked hairy guy named Bruce living in his mother's basement.

SAY UNCLE

This weekend I finally watched Half Nelson a movie that I have wanted to see since it was in theaters. It probably would never have made it on my radar except that I happened to catch Ebert and Roeper one night when Kevin Smith was sitting in for Roger Ebert. Both Smith and Roeper raved about this film and I believe that it was Kevin Smith who stated that "this was what movie making was all about."

The fact that they both spoke, nay raved so rapturously about it that I wrote it down on my must see list. Of course I don't actually go to the movies that often because the whole sitting with the public in a dark room thing usually annoys me. When it came out on DVD I rented it THREE times and started watching it twice before I finally made it through.

What those guys didn't mention is that this movie is really hard to watch. Not because it's bad but because it's painful. Ryan Gosling richly deserved the Academy Award nomination - his performance was nothing short of amazing. It was like being that proverbial fly on the wall watching someone implode.

I've had friends who picked up the pipe and honestly, I haven't felt much compassion for them. They turned into drug addicts and stopped being the people that I loved. With this performance Ryan Gosling's Dan Dunne continued to be someone I cared about who didn't seem to care much about himself or his good heart or his fine mind and it broke my heart.

He has a connection with his student Drey, a smart 13 year old who's living largely on her own because her mom works all the time and her dad is MIA and after she catches him hitting the pipe in the girls bathroom (he's the basketball coach) the crack crutch starts to slip a bit. Everytime he looks at her he sees what she saw and it bums him out. This is compounded by the fact that her brother is doing time for selling rock and the neighborhood crack dealer, his dealer, is taking a personal interest in Drey.

He really likes this kid and wants her to be okay despite the fact that the odds are against her and he's not really one to talk. I really liked her too - Shareeka Epps is a revelation. I hope to see her working a lot more. She's got this face that is young and old at the same time and it says so much without her saying one word.

After I watched it I had that feeling in my chest that I get when I really want to cry - a tightness around the heart and pain behind my eyes. I had no idea how it was going to turn out for Dan and Drey but I very much wanted them to be okay. And I didn't believe that was really going to happen.

If you haven't seen Half Nelson you should see it. It's a fantastic film. But it's not a feel good experience. It will sit on you long after it's over.

DUSTING UP

You know those cans of compressed air that kids have been huffing? And then dying? Well, I have 4 of these cans, bought on special on Staples, and they are my new favorite thing.

Not for huffing.

For dusting! And not just for dusting off my keyboard which is what it's designed for I suppose. I have discovered that this stuff will dust EVERYTHING!

I discovered this because they're doing work in the space over my office and every day I come in to find every surface covered with dust and wood chips. Rather than stress about it I just use my Dust-Off with the super spray action.

The floor is a fucking mess now, but tomorrow I may try dusting off the floor and shooting it all out the door. You know like when you use the hose to clean the sidewalk.

Fun!

(Clearly it's been a slow day)

WHAT I DID THIS PAST WEEKEND

I have nothing to write about that's all that meaningful so I'll just do a rundown of the past weekend.

Friday night: Shabbat dinner at Mimi's. We had really good conversation about Don Imus and racism in the good ole U.S. of A. I found myself explaining to four Israelis what Jigaboo means and there was a lot of stumbling on the exact pronounciation of the word. Coon was easier. Apparently they don't have these kinds of denigrating words in Hebrew. And Mimi, who is a rabbi told me that Judaism teaches that you're not supposed to utter ugly words about another out loud, well maybe to your spouse, late at night when no one can hear you, but really not ever. To do so is to wound that person at the level of their soul. I ended up staying and talking so late that I missed going to see Marcia at the Acme Theater where her new show is up. I've got 4 more weeks of opportunity so I'm sure I'll be writing about it in the near future.

Saturday: Got up and cleaned the house for the housekeeper. She's not a lifter or a move so if I want her to clean under stuff I have to move it. Other than that she's really really good and this also prevents stuff from getting broken so it's all good. I LOVE my house right after she's gone. While she was cleaning I went on down to the Toyota Long Beach Grand Prix. It was all very spur of the moment so we bought the GA tickets - a first for me - and milled about. We went down on the motorcycle so as to get good parking and not have to deal with traffic. Even so we were still late and only got to watch the last 10 minutes of qualifying. Probably a good thing since the cars are really loud and I didn't have any earplugs. We did get to see the Le Mans race which was pretty cool. My favorite car was the Audi - very quiet, very sexy and very fast. The Penske Porsches won though, going 1 and 2. By 5pm it was freezing and windy and overcast so we went over to Matt and Leisa's to hang out before going to a party to benefit a nursery school for homeless kids called the Big Blue Ball. Matt and Leisa bundled their kids out the door to drop them off with a babysitter and accidentally ran over Adi's motorcycle. So much for resting. Other than scratches and a broken piece on the plastic thing on the front of the bike it's okay, but it's not perfect anymore and that's kind of sad. Oddly Matt was more upset than Adi but then I guess if I ran over the $20,000 bike I'd be pretty bummed too. We had to leave the party before it got really good because we were on the bike, and since I can't party when we're on the bike that was okay with me.

Sunday: Watched sports until Adi made me go for a walk in the afternoon. As we headed down to the beach we passed a bunch of girls with hula hoops. I have only limited skills with my hoop so we joined them on the bluff where they were retreating from the wind. I have to say hooping in gale force wind is much harder than hooping in the living room. It was fun though to do it with a whole bunch of people. People walking by would pick up the hoop and start hooping. And then put it down and run off laughing. There's something about a hula hoop. Early evening we headed over to a friend's artist reception for her show at the Pico Gallery. Met a guy who is working with the Hungarian government to bring Hungarian wines back to prominence. I had no idea that Hungary was where all the fine wines came from prior to the 20s. Apparently all the Louis were swilling the Hungarian vino. There's a tasting on the 28th and I'm invited so more to come on that for sure.

And that was pretty much that. Got my taxes back today and am off to file them. I have no idea why I wait until the last minute every year, but it seems to be my way.

Hope you're all filed and either getting some back of zeroing out (my personal goal).

REMEMBER THE ONE ABOUT...

Writing yesterday about adventures in English as a second language and the ensuing multicultural experiences put me in mind of my first night in Jerusalem. It was about this time last year that I went to Israel with Adi. His mother had been been visiting for six weeks so we had gotten to know each other fairly well. She speaks five languages including English although it's not exactly fluent.

The first night we arrived Adi took off to his brother's house to make a surprise video for her 70th birthday party leaving me with his parents. He went under the guise of going to visit his brother in the hospital after his motorcycle accident which had occurred that afternoon so what could I say without coming off like a clingy needy whinger?

His father who will not fly due due to claustrophobia, I think, was quite upset that his wife had stayed away for so long. She had arranged for people to take care him but the original visit went from 4 weeks to six weeks due to complications with Adi's back surgery. At week 5 his father went into the hospital with pneumonia. I'm making this sound like Pops is an invalid, but he's not. He's a completely self sufficient man who's been infantalized by his wife and who missed her terribly while she was gone.

Have you noticed that there is a theme here? And that the theme is DRAMA!!!!

So Adi abandons me within 30 minutes of landing in the Holy homeland and his parents immediately begin screaming at each other. I laid there on the bed listening to his father ranting away in Hebrew over the sound of the call to prayer from the mosque down in the valley off the backyard and curled into a little ball. I got that he was screaming "I love you and I missed you terribly." Her responses to him sounded like a mommy calming down a truculent two year old. It's amazing how much you can pick up without knowing a word of the language. It's all subtext and so much became clear to me about the family dynamics and why Adi has chosen to live half way around the world from his whole entire family.

I was exhausted and it wasn't just the jet lag.

They're not my parents so I could find humor in the exchange because it was kind of like the Hebrew version of Archie and Edith, but it got really weird when we were in the car heading over to one of the brother's house for dinner. I was forced to sit in the front in the passenger seat, or death seat as it seemed to me with all the late braking, bringing us to a pause centimeters off the bumper of the car in front at every light and stop sign. I closed my eyes and surrendered to the possibility that my life might end in Israel, not by a suicide bombing, but in a burning car crash. Adi's mom sat in the backseat and the loud conversation continued and under all the vitriole I could hear the joyous notes of banter.

Then his mom said, "Tell her about the girls you raped after the war!"

I opened my eyes. Um, wha.....?

And he launches into this story about how after he was injured in the war of Independence (1948) he was sent to Austria for surgery on his hand. Afterwards he was stationed there during his recovery and he and his fellow soldiers met some girls who were daughters of SS officers, now war criminals. Since he and his friends were young and good looking these girls flocked to them and from what I gathered were easily had in a sexual way.

They would teach these girls how to say things in Hebrew, telling them that the words for "I'm a dirty whore" meant "Hi, how are you?" He talked about how one night, at a big party filled with soldiers and politicians, one of the girls showed up and yelled this greeting across the room. Adi's mom laughed merrily about this from the back seat. He looked at me and said, "I'm not proud about what we did but you must understand, many of us had lost our whole families to the Nazi's. We were angry."

I could not think of anything to say. We did not share a language to discuss it and quite frankly I was amazed that to her this casual disregard for these women equated to the word rape. I cannot quite wrap my head around the intentional cruelty of a schoolyard prank as a response to genocide, but then knowing the basic goodness of this man, and the sweetness of his soul under all that ranting and yelling, I guess I can.

When I think about it, anytime that someone hurts another person with the intention of devaluing and disrespecting their humanity it is an expression of the same energy that fuels hatred.

And Adi's dad gets this, which is why to him perhaps, the way he treated those women was like rape.

It all comes down to your intention and then you have to hope you can live with what you said or did to another human being.

RE: DA BITCHES AND HOS

I just read that they fired Don Imus. Please God don't let him come to the West Coast because we've got enough mean talk from Tom Leykus (I have no idea how to spell his name but it's quite clear that he doesn't really like anyone). I'm wondering if they also fired the Executive Producer on Don's show because after all, he started it, and quite frankly his comments about the Jigaboos vs. the Wannabees were just as, if not more offensive, even if he did try to temper it by foisting it off as a Spike Lee reference.

But this is not really what I want to write about. It just put me in mind of something that's related - an experience that has stayed with me over the last few weeks which is absolutely related to the subject of bitches and hos.

Adi's younger brother (39 but still younger) was here visiting from Israel a few weeks back and we went up to Lake Tahoe. To get there we flew into Reno and then rented a car and drove up the mountain. At the airport we were standing in line for the rental car behind a guy who's buddy worked for Enterprise and was supposed to hook him up with a truck. He was there with his friend and two girls who wandered off while we waited on line.

He was a sweet man, late 20s early 30s wearing huge rings that led me to ask if he played football and indeed he had although some of them were bowl rings and some were from bowling championships. The bowling rings were as big as the football rings - bowl and bowling no size difference - who knew? So he gets up to the counter and his buddy basically threw him under the bus. Not only was there no truck waiting for him but there wasn't even a reservation. The car rental guy was able to wrangle him a full size car...

... which ended up being parked next to our car out in the airport rental car parking lot.

We had a ton of luggage and it took a while to get it all in, but not as long as it was going to take this guy and his friends who had so much luggage it was overflowing the trunk of that car. I climbed into the back seat with Adi's brother and sister-in-law while Adi finished packing our car and then tried to help our new friend with his packing puzzle.

At this point little bro spies the girls that are standing by that car, large curvaceous black women with elaborate hairdos and looooong curved fingernails, zipped into shiny tight lycra track suits and he got so excited you'd of thought it was Ofra Haza returned from the dead, but no, he starts pointing and YELLING, "The Beeetches! The Beetches!"

Frantically checking to make sure the windows were all the way up I tried to get him to stop by asking questions, like "WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? Stop yelling, PLEASE." He explained to me that these were the bitches and hos like on the videos and I explained in a high pitched emphatic whisper that they were not and that it wasn't at all cool to be screaming that word over and over. I pointed out that their friend who happened to be a defensive back might very well pull him out of our car, without opening the door, and make him apologize.

He was shocked that they might consider this hurtful because to him it was like he was seeing famous people, you know da bitches and hos featured in those videos on MTV. It did not occur to him that their feelings might be hurt because his cultural references about the United States are pretty much just what he sees on the media that's streamed around the world after being created here.

It was my own little Borat moment.

It's not that Israel is backward, it's just that you would never see these women in Jerusalem. Or even in Tel Aviv. Because of the language thing I didn't even want to try to explain it to him. Even if we spoke the same language I don't know if I could.

All week long I've been listening to people talk about this, some saying it's okay to talk about women, in particular black women, this way because it's the popular cultural parlance or because they have a first amendment right to do so, and others saying it's not okay ever and is indicative of an underlying racial hatred in our society.

Bottom line for me is this: It's mean and it's hurtful and it's not okay - even if you have no idea what you're saying. If you say it because you think you're being cool you should be prepared to suffer the consequences, there ain't nothin' cool about being mean.

THE GRATEFUL LIST

I am currently vexed and so I decided to write a grateful list instead of pissing and moaning about what I am vexed about (ungrateful employees who should be kicked to curb rather than coddled, but anyway...)

I am grateful for my health (because I do not currently have health insurance).

I am grateful for my family and the gene pool from which springeth longevity (unless I got the genes for the cardiac disease, or the depression in which case I will welcome the cardiac disease).

I am grateful for Adi who offers me endless opportunities to practice flexibility (I don't mean that - he wishes, but I don't mean that).

I am grateful for my friends who are present and patient when I am not and who, like Heather, the cowboy Goddess, reappear after years and spend hours on the phone with me as if no time has passed.

I am grateful that my life is interesting - to me. I am very interested in me. In you too most likely but mostly it's all about me.

I am grateful for my ability to find humor in pretty much anything because otherwise I am certain that anger and bitterness would win out considering the current administration and the state of the world, and I truly do not want to get that permanently pinched look around my mouth.

I am grateful to be employed and have a roof over my head and food to eat.

I am grateful for the ability to move around and exercise (although I don't as much as I should).

I am grateful to feel like I'm kind of getting the hang of life - well for the last few days I've felt like that, despite the vexation, but check with me next week.

SO LONG, FAREWELL

I haven't been keeping up with the Anna Nicole drama since I have always been somewhat disturbed by her whole life. The death of her son finally brought her into the the realm of human because who could imagine losing a child and not feel incredible pain?

I remember when she first appeared in Guess ads with her normal sized butt and massive boobs and amazing face. I thought she was some kind of Sophia Loren lucious Italian lady that the boys at Guess had found eating linguine at some sidwalk cafe in an Italian mountain town. And then when she started to appear briefly in commercials on TV I thought she was kind of like Anita Ekberg in the La Docle Vita, glamorous and bohemian and wild.

And then she started to really get some exposure and, and showing up on those entertainment "news" shows where I heard her speak and I was certain that she was an inbred cracker from the backwoods of some southern US state. She was from Mejia, TX so I wasn't that wrong.

What was abundantly clear by the time she had her show on E!, the Anna Nicole show, was that she had some serious problems. It seemed to be a combination of drugs, sycophanitc leeches and inbreeding, and it was pretty horrible to watch, especially since her involved her son. She barely seemed able to take care of herself, much less a teenage boy.

I know that those shows are edited for "entertainment," and that what got on the air was probably just the worst bits, but they were pretty bad and there was an abundance of them. It was pretty clear that her life was a train wreck beamed out on the E network and it wasn't going to have a happy ending.

And it hasn't had a happy ending.

But, the Anna obsession that has taken place in the media of late rattled lose a memory of a story - a pretty fucking great story - that involves Anna and a friend of mine.

Tom is a photographer. He used to be a model in the 80s, a very successful model who was and is classicly handsome. In the early 90s he decided to quite modeling and pursue photography. He is also an amazing photographer. This journey brought him to Playboy studios one day to drop off some of his work. As he was walking down the hall after meeting with a photographer he passed an open door and inside, at a dressing table, naked except for her robe, which was flung open, was Anna Nicole Smith.

She was there shooting one of a number of pictorials which appeared in that magazine. This particular pictorial involved a big white bathtub full of bubbles. So Tom glances in as he passes by, because what guy wouldn't, and she spots him.

"Him, I want him," she slurred to the producer of the shoot. "I want him to get in the bathtub with me."

Now this isn't Anna at her hugest, but she was pretty big at the time, and also pretty drunk and possibly on drugs. In other words she was quite a handful.

And she wanted Tom.

In the bath with her.

Naked.

The producer chases him down, conversations are had, and long story short he ended up in the Playboy pictorial in Anna Nicoles arms wearing nothing but a top hat.

I was of course interested to know if her whole slurry, slightly retarded thing was an act or what. He said that she was really too fucked up for him to be able to tell, but what really impressed him was that as out of it as she was, once the lights were on her and the camera was ready she was a total professional and turned "it" on. And whatever "it" was, she was plentifully possesed that that thing.

The camera loved her and she loved the camera.

When the light were turned off and the shoot was over she was practically incoherent and he ended up driving her home. I can't remember if he was asked to do this, or if he offered because he felt sorry for her. I do remember that he described her as one of the saddest people he'd ever met.

I will be glad when she's in the ground and I wish her happiness where ever she is because I don't think she ever really was happy here.

DAY OF LOVE

I freaking hate Valentine's Day.

I hated it back in elementary school when we bought those boxes of 100 valentines wrapped in shiny red cellophane to fill out and pass around at school the next day. It was an opportunity for the mean girls to leave people out. It was less like the day of love and more like the day of leaving people out.

It's still kind of like that if you're single. Even if you're happy single the media barrage drives it into your head that somehow you're missing out if you don't have someone to buy you roses and AOL has helpfully provided a code so that you know what the colors mean if someone does.

Pity the man that buys his girlfriend yellow roses.

Whether I'm with someone or not I'm usually cranky on Valentine's Day. I don't like feeling manipulated and I find that even though I swear I'm not buying in and I don't care, I do. You know, like I say I don't want anything but then get upset when Adi doesn't do anything. And I really DON'T want anything because I'm super picky and we kind of don't have matching sensibilities in areas like this and I hate pretending that I really like the bottle of Jovan Musk for women that I know he got at Big Lots. And this is where he shops people. When we were at his parents house in Jersualem there were items there still sporting the Big Lots stickers that he had sent them as gifts.

I hate to say it but when it comes to gifts it's not the thought that counts with me.

I prefer that he let me know that he wants to spend time with me and then if it happens great. If not, at least I know he wanted to. And this is where it is the thought that counts.

I think this is probably true for most women. But maybe not. Women constantly surprise me.

Anyway, single or double I wish all my beloveds a Happy Valentines Day. I would love to be with you all eating chocolate bon bons and drinking scotch, but I have to go upstairs where Adi is lying prone, moaning because his back is out.

And even though he can barely walk or get himself on and off the john, and I definitely won't be getting any tonight, he wants to spend time with me.

ZIP IT!

I will start by admitting that I am completely hormonal and PMS is in da house, but that said, it doesn't mean that I'm wrong about this. In fact, it's something that I've said before when I was completely sane and normal but perhaps because I wasn't shrieking it my sentiments did not have the same impact.

Tonight Adi and I went to have dinner. We went to Sushi King which is not the best, but it's very good. And very reasonably priced. And we had a really amazing sea bass in misoyaki sauce. Amazingly, melt in your mouth, praise Jesus good. The kind of good that makes you moan aloud.

But when the meal was over his comment was, "We paid almost $50 and other than the sea bass the sushi was so-so." Okay that's his opinion. He's wrong, but still he's entitled to his opinion.

What he's not entitled to is the relentless focus on the negative. Could he say, "that was the best piece of sea bass I ever had" ?????

NO!

Because although I love the guy he has the propensity to be the black cloud of death sometimes. Take this past weekend. We come back to my house on Saturday afternoon, my just cleaned by the housekeeper who costs me $75 which I cannot afford but treat myself to all the same about once every 5 weeks. You can really tell that your house has been cleaned when you wait that long (she says, accentuating the positive). His first words when he walks in the door is "Whew, the cat box stinks."

Now this might've been true, Molly's stomach has been upset and it's not a good smell, but he fucking ruined my experience of walking into my spotless, clean and sparkling house because he had to focus on this one negative thing that I remedied by cleaning the box and carrying the "smell" out to the trash.

This continued into Saturday night when we went out and I looked great and his first comment was that I might want to button my blouse one more button.

Part of this is due, I think to his belief that the world is waiting with bated breath for his approval - I don't know if this is an Israeli thing, although it does seem that most Israelis I know speak in a cadence that is either signifying approval or disgust - and part of it is that he honestly thinks the sharing of his opinion is benefitting me in some way.

Me? I have opinions to share all the time. Any of my friends would acknowledge that I am constantly sharing my opinion and indicating approval or lack thereof. And yes, I will often share with Adi, my opinion about stuff in his life, BUT I am sensitive to the fact that HE is EXTREMELY sensitive and I time the sharing of my opinion to those moments when he might best be able to hear me or at least be able to civilly let me know that now is not the time. And some of my opinions he just can't handle and I keep them to myself because in the big picture it's not that important that I share them if it's going to make him feel bad or bring him down.

He doesn't just spread his cloud of observational negativity over me either, no, he told our friend who is remodeling the place below that he thought he was insane to be spending $11,000 for his new kitchen that he was so excited about. And yes, this is probably true, but it's not his kitchen or his money and he freaking blighted this man's joy.

This rant is totally hormone fueled and truly he is a wonderful guy, a great friend and the kindest person you could ever meet. But tonight I completely lost it in the car coming home and told him that for the next 4 days he REALLY needs to only say the positive things out loud.

All the other thoughts, feelings and opinions?

He should fucking Zip It.

And what I know for sure is this: when I am able to more normally comport myself I am still going to think this would be a good thing.

I might even put it into practice myself.

TELL ME A STORY

My friend Allison sent me a bunch of books on CD so that I could listen to them when I went up north last year. It's a fairly new thing for me the books on tape. I usually listen to music when I'm driving. Music that I've put together. My own play list soundtrack to whereever I'm going.

But I thought, since I would be traveling alone, that I would try the books on tape. (I know they're on CD but I also still refer to a band's new CD as their new album. I figure my friends now what I mean.)

I have to say I am completely addicted. The time goes by much more quickly and I am, for the most part, completely entertained if not engrossed. I mean I really prefer to read a book. I love reading, but being read to is not so bad. It brings back memories of being read to when I was a kid, without the lap to sit in.

I am for the most part pretty wrapped up in the storytelling, although I have to say that one of them (one my mom gave me) I couldn't listen to all the way through because the guy that wrote it was also reading it and I kept getting distracted by his vocal inflections and my mind would wander into wondering what his home life was like and did his nasal tones make his wife crazy, because that's one of those things that might not bother you at first, but after a few years could just make you snap one day...

See! Unless the reader is very good my mind goes off in crazy directions. Sometimes I'm amazed by my ability to think about stuff I need to do and listen with half my brain to the story and retain it. Of course other times I miss my off ramp and suddenly realize that I have no idea where I am. That's pretty weird.

My favorites so far are the Janet Evanovich, Stephanie Plum books, read by Lori Petty who does a really tremendous job. I'd read the books and I have to say that Lori pretty much had down the characters voices that I heard in my head while I was reading. Except for Ranger. I gave him a more basso voice without the Puerto Rican accent.

The one I'm listening to now, The Rule of Four, is pretty good as far as the reader goes. He's an actor too I think, although not one that I've ever heard of - he has theater guy hair in the photo on the box, so maybe he's from the stage. But in this case the story, the writing itself is not real tight and I find myself wondering if I would be skipping over stuff if I were actually reading it.

There are weaknesses that I might not notice so glaringly if I were reading (and skipping over stuff), like a character got killed about 15 chapters ago and there's really never been much mention of it since and this is one of the major plot points because it's supposed to tell us that the thesis that Paul is writing (about the Hypnerotomachia Pollipholi - I have no idea if I spelled that right and I forgot how to write the html to do links so if you want to see what the hell that is you will have to coyp and paste this link http://mitpress.mit.edu/e-books/HP/) is worth killing someone over. So I keep wondering what's going on with Bill's murder? Why is no one really mentioning it? This morning while I was sitting in traffic I realized that maybe only a day or two have passed since Bill was shot - it feels like freaking eons what with all the historical exposition into renaissance history and people like Savonarola and his bonfires.

That stuff is interesting to me and I would totally get on-line and find out more about it if I had time, but it's bogging down the story, and I feel like a little kid who is being read to and who forcibly turns pages when things get boring.

Why does life seem a lot easier for three year olds?

I don't know if I would finish this book if I were reading it. Lord knows I have more than a few unfinished books lying around right now. I like books on CD though and to date I have listend to all of them - except for nasal man's book - all the way to the end because what the heck, I'm getting where I'm going and it keeps me off the phone. Alos lately when I try to read I'm having to close one eye to get the words to come into focus and I fall almost immediately to sleep. I'm quite looking forward to the bunch more I have to get through.

I just hope that the readers don't have annoying voices. Don't you think that's something they should check before hiring them?

I'd love to find a so-so book about unicorns and rainbows and other happy thoughts that's read by someone with a really soothing voice. I could play it on my clock radio when I'm going to sleep at night. It would be a lot nicer than Leno.

THE ARRRRRRGGHHHHH HEARD AROUND THE WORLD

Or at least across town...

I got a speeding ticket when I was driving back from my NoCal journey at the first of the year. It was stupid because I was on Kanan and everyone knows that Kanan is a speed trap. I certainly know it because I use that road to go from P.C.H. to the 101 a lot. You cannot miss the CHP sitting there like vultures.

Except I had to pee and I was running out of gas and I had been driving since 5 a.m. and it was now 10 a.m. I was also experiencing a dramatic relapse of the chest cold I'd had since Thanksgiving.

So I was cruising along at 70 in a 55 and I SAW the C.H.P. car facing me, the morning sun glinting off the radar gun pointed at me and it barely registered except for a dull, "Oh Fuck," and a huge sigh of resignation as he pulled out and made a U-turn to pull me over.

At the least the desparate need to pee disappeared.

Today marked 4 weeks since I got the ticket and I needed to call the court and find out about going to traffic school. I'm eligible because it's been about 10 years since my last ticket. The last time I had a ticket I got a notice in the mail with a court date and I showed up and asked for traffic school which I got and attended (and met a guy that I made out with when we went for a drink afterwards, but that's another story.) Now you can call and process your ticket over the phone. Or use the internet.

I wanted to speak with a person because I figured I could get them to give me traffic school over the phone. But to actually speak with a person on the phone requires 8 minutes of listening to recordings and punching stuff in. Today everytime I would get to the place where I might be able to talk to a person the phone would ring and I would have to hang up and take care of business and then start over.

This was because Adi had washn't answering his cell phone so his calls were ringing into the office. Normally this is totally fine, but today when I was on my fourth attempt to get through and the phone rang yet again and in frustration I answered it, shrieking, "(Name of the company), can I HELP you?" I wasn't just on the verge I was completely over the edge and thankfully the customer on the other end of the phone has a good sense of humor and laughed. Somewhat fearfully but it was still a laugh.

At this point I gave up on the phone route and decided to try the internet.

Big mistake.

The only thing I am entitled to do on the internet is request an extension or get a court date. The first court date they would give me was 3 days after the due date on my ticket. Because there was no human of whom I could ask questions I assumed that I would get in trouble for going in after my due date, and applied for an extension thinking that I would then go get a court date way before that date.

But no. The extension is to April 17th and the first court date they would give me was April 18th. What the fuck? So now this is going to drag on and it may be June before this is off my list of things to do.

Unless I can get through on that phone system on next week.

When I typed in all the information

BACK IN THE SWING OF THINGS

I haven't written anything here in so long it took me 20 minutes to remember how to get back in to post. In the time that's passed since I last wrote here I have gained 10 pounds and started working full time for A. His company is growing in leaps and bounds and I am happy to be a part of it but I need to write in order to have some balance.

The work I do for him is tedious and, okay let's just be honest because I don't think he reads this, boring. Even the stuff that I enjoy at the end, e.g. getting the bank to give us lots of money, is a wrenching process that I abhor. Of course this is all good practice for me to learn about being an adult and dealing with money, something that I've pretty much actively avoided for years.

Which is why I've been walking around in stupid debt like a college student and quite frankly denial is a good way to end up with shopping cart in an alley somewhere in your 60s. So I'm doing my time and making friends with all the tedium (at least it is for me) that is dealing with finances.

I am not having enough fun though. I went from having a lot of fun to having not nearly enough fun. I think that's why I've gained the 10 pounds. Food is my only fun. A. is fun too, but working together and spending pretty much 24/7 together when we're both exhausted and overextended energy wise is more a blessing than a blast.

When I do have time for fun I find that the new fun is taking a nap. The idea of going to see live music is excellent in theory, but the reality is I can't stay awake past 9pm. Thank God for Tivo or I would be missing out on Grey's Anatomy which is also on the short list of "fun" things to do right now.

I do occasionally take the camera and go take pictures to post on Flickr.

Woohoo!

This year is going to be about getting some balance between work and fun and putting the writing back in the picture.

FLEXIBLE...OR NOT

I have always contended that living with another person is a good thing because it's much harder to get set in your ways, curmudgeonly so to speak. Indeed, when I have lived with roommates my naturally controlling nature was subverted to my sweet considerate self who had to acknowledge that there were other people under the roof and sharing the rent who had a say in how life went in the house. I did pretty well with this as long as they were easily manipulated, er agreeable to my preferences, and for the most part they were because I like to live a comfortable and aesthetically pleasing life. I also owned all the furniture and appliances and dishes and art work.

There was this one time when I went away for a week and came home to find that my manic depressive roommate, the one with 5 years of sobriety in cocaine annonymous, had decided to redecorate the living room. She had a penchant for plastic flowers and also felt that pushing all the furniture against the walls was a way to create more space. Consequently when I came home, late at night on a Sunday, it was to a room that looked a lot like what I imagined rehab to look like - everything was oriented around the television set instead of the fireplace. As soon as she left the next day I "fixed" it and it actually looked better than it had when I left.

Outrage proved to be inspiring.

I've been living by myself for the last 7 years because I got into a great apartment that is perfect for one person. It has two bedrooms, but only one bathroom and so it's better for a single, or possibly a couple. I say possible because A. moved in with me back in February when he started his remodel and things have taken longer than he thought so we've been cohabitating at my place for the past four months. During this time I have become aware of how curmudgeonly I've become, or plainly speaking, what a weirdo I am.

We get along exceedingly well for two people who spend almost 24/7 togther but there have been times while he's been...visiting, that I thought I was going to lose it. Like when I came home and he'd re-organized my bedroom. Or when I get in bed at night after he's "made" the bed in the morning, only to find that the sheets are wadded up under the comforter. Seriously? I can't sleep unless the bed is neatly made and the blankets are put on in the proper order. Can you say OCD? I'm letting stuff go because I don't want to become one of those tight lipped ladies whose face gets more and more puckered with distaste. But some of his foibles could use a little examination as well.

He doesn't throw food away. Ever. There are cheese rinds in my refrigerator. They're sitting next to the container of juice leftover from the tomatoe and cucumber salad. There are no more tomatoes and cucumbers. Just juice. Maybe he's going to drink it. I don't know. When he takes a shower he leaves his underwear draped over the side of the tub. Each day there's a new pair sitting next to the pair from the day before. As I mentioned he insists on making the bed, but this is more of a covering of the covers wadded from a night of sleeping. I mean, why bother? He spends hours shopping on Ebay. I didn't really know how many hours until he moved in.

It's one thing to go stay at someone's house. It's another thing when their space is your space, or as I interpret it, my space is their space. This is why I am choosing to see the occasional annoyance or irritation as a gift. It's my opportunity to stretch and go with the flow.

Cuz, I'm not getting any younger and flexibility is something you've got to use.
Or lose.

EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY

My friend Nanette was one of the first serious music fans I ever met. She turned me on to Jackson Brown and Nils Lofgren and Rod Stewart. Not spandex pants Rod Stewart but post Jeff Beck, singing with the Faces Rod Stewart. She also had a major thing for Bruce Springsteen that did not translate for me although I thought he was a total babe. (Years later when he walked in on me taking at pee at a party that fact was confirmed, but I had no idea how short he was.)

I developed big, big love for Rod, as Nanette called him, when I would babysit for the people around the block who had the album referenced above and an extra large stash of marijuana that my friends and I would smoke as we listened to it over and over. Maggie May, Mandolin Wind, and his cover of Tim Hardin's Reason to Believe sung in an amazing soulfull voice that we just knew had the cutest british accent ever when he spoke.

We ignored the rumors involving gallons of semen and multitudes of cylindrical pant stuffing stories and pursued him relentlessly through the hills of Beverly. Yes, that's right. Nanette and I stalked Rod Stewart although back in those days it was still innocuously thought of as groupie love. Not that we were groupies because that would require a level of hotness that two freckle faced girls from the suburbs didn't have. This did not deter us because we really just wanted to see him. Like up close and personal.

Over the years we did see him although I don't think he saw us because we were always in the bushes with our cameras. I have lots of shots of blurs in the distance behind crisp, sharp pictures of emerald green leaves. We knew where he played soccer on Saturdays and we would pack a picnic and go hang out on the nearby lawn to watch the game in sidelong stares so that we wouldn't appear to be stalking.

In the early 90s when he was dating, I can't remember which blonde, I finally met the man. He was pushing 50 then, a fact that became very apparent as I moved drunkenly across the very posh bar at the top of our hotel in San Francisco. I'd had enough vodka to think that it would be a good idea to finally go and meet the man whom I'd adored throughout the years. The singer who sold out with Do Ya Think I'm Sexy in the 80s and broke my heart because I used to think he was really sexy, but he put on spandex pants and made a video, and it was more scary than sexy.

He was very kind and stopped to say hello as I went on and on and got really confused because he didn't look at all the way I thought he would. He had make up on for Christ's sake and fake blond hair and more hairspray than I've ever used. And even though I was clutching my camera because I'd thought that at last I'd get my picture and maybe even be in it, I didn't ask for one.

I'd rather keep the pictures in my mind from the Faces concert at Anaheim stadium where he rocked my world.

I'm posting pictures I do like at Flickr and you can check them out at http://flickr.com/photos/imontome/.

GRADUAL-ATING

My nephew is graduating from high school today. A. and I are not going. I will miss seeing David walk across the stage, but I will not miss watching the 500 other kids in his class doing the same thing. When his sister Michelle graduated her mother started a tradition which I'm sure will be carried on for all the other kids to come. Everyone contributes a page for a book commemorating the journey thus far. Since I'm not the attending kind of person, not one who makes a point to go to homecoming games, etc. I don't really have memories to evoke so I try to dispense with useful advice. The stuff I wish someone had told me when I graduated from high school. Not that I would've paid attention, but you never know. If you keep it simple enough something might stick. When Michelle graduated and was heading to college I warned her in great detail to stay away from the evil credit card dealers that hang out in front of the bookstore and in the quad, offering the opportunity to dig a deep hole of debt to entering freshman. I also advised her to never leave the house without #30 sunscreen on. For David, whom doesn't seem to be as academically directed I offered some thoughts that he may or may not find useful. I'm hoping that some of it may come in handy, but mostly I just want him to know the last part.

The years after high school are often fraught with fucking up and the most important thing to remember is that you are loved.

No matter what.

June 2006



Dear David –


As you climb into the catapult that is graduation and prepare yourself to be launched into the world – wheeee! I wanted to wish you well and offer some words of wisdom from a little farther down the trail. The standard stuff still stands; credit cards continue to be the work of Satan and sunscreen is more important than you can know right now. Melanoma is not your friend, so use anything that’s a 30 or higher and pay cash. And floss everyday.


But there’s more.


Don’t be afraid to try something and fail. It’s how you succeed and also how you learn so it’s all good. Travel as much as you can to places you know nothing about and meet the people who live there. Don’t stay in your comfort zone because you can grow old and bored there before you know it. Move it or lose it. Learn to listen to your intuitive self and discern what’s true for you. Live in that truth everyday even if it makes you and those around you uncomfortable. Stop and ask yourself if you’re happy, if you’re not then figure out how to get there because life is way too short. Find your passions and pursue them passionately. These are the things you would do if no one told you, or paid you to do them. Be compassionate and kind to yourself and it will be easy to do so with others.


When it comes to love practice good personal hygiene and you will be ahead of the game. Your natural scent is always better than cologne, but if you must splash on the smell well, do so sparingly. Take responsibility for birth control unless you want to have children. Communication is key and if you can communicate well you can navigate through almost anything. That said there will be times when dealing with the love of your life where you’re just plain confused and/or scared – ask questions, it’s always a good way to go.


There’s all kinds of other stuff I could tell you, but I am trusting that you will learn for yourself as you go because that’s the best way. My wish for you is that you have as much fun and adventure in life as you possibly can and that you know you are loved and supported whatever you do and wherever you go.

DO YOU HEAR WHAT I HEAR?

It's starting to bother me that I don't have an Ipod. All my friends have them. They download music from Itunes and they make play lists and have all the cool adapter stuff. I was in the Apple store with Inbar when he was was here and he bought himself a nano. I was amazed at all the things you can plug an Ipod into to create home stereos, to play it in the car, to take it to the beach or to a party and share your music with others. There's an armband you can wear that it slides into.

There are lots and lots of accessories for this gadget and that really makes me want one.

The thing is I'm only just now figuring out how to work my cell phone and I can't really manage it while I'm walking and it's super dangerous if I try to use it while I'm driving. It takes all my attention to see what I'm doing and to press the right buttons. The Ipod challenges the same skillset as the cell phone and therefore carries with it the same risk of accident.

With each new generation these products get smaller and cooler and more gadgety. I totally missed out on the Playskool training toys for todays technology so until they make it so simple the toddler set can swing it I'm going to be listening to music on CD.

Or vinyl.

CRASH LANDING

We got back from Israel a couple of weeks ago.

The day after we returned A. got violently ill. He though it was food poisoning. I did too until I got the same exact food poisoning complete with violent hurling and flaming muscles and the ass-id spackling of the toilet while puking into the trashcan. And then there was the crying and prayers for merciful death - that was A., I moaned and rocked myself like a catatonic mental patient.

This was after the grueling flight home; twelve hours from Tel Aviv to Toronto and then an hour and a half layover in "the room" where El Al places it's passengers, sort of a holding cell between flights, and the final leg which takes about five and half hours but it feels like forever, especially that last hour.

Our flight was scheduled to leave Tel Aviv at 1am on Sunday morning. We arrived with an hour and a half to spare, but A. had to return the rental car. As I sat in the airport with all of our luggage, tickets and passports, the time passed. At first I was kind of fascinated by the hordes of Hassidic Jews. It looked as though the entire cast of Fiddler on the Roof was shuttling luggage through Ben Gurion. Actually more like the cast of about 10 different productions of Fiddler. There were just tons of them everywhere. And they get very miffed when you stare at them which is strange considering that they're wearing knickers and white stockings and shiny bathrobes and fur hats. What else are people going to do but stare.

Adi finally showed up after about an hour and 20 minutes and El Al doesn't look very kindly on passenger who show up when the plane is boarding, out of breath and spewing excuses about the rental car. He had to drive to a completely different terminal to return the damn thing and then shuttle back to our terminal and Ben Gurion has about 30 miles of road circling it so it was lucky he made it back when he did. After some pretty intense grilling we were allowed to put our luggage through the x-ray machine and then get our boarding passes whereupon it was discovered that they'd given our window aisle seats away. We were provided with an agent to walk us through security and someone came up in a special elevator to take our luggage directly to the plane. When we arrived at the gate A. everyone was on the plane but us and A. started throwing a fit about our seats not being held. I just wanted to get on so I plopped down next to this very sweet boy who was on his way to LA for a vacation before he started his military service. He and I got to talking and he offered to give A. his seat so we were able to sit together. This didn't necessarily make the flight more comfortable, it was 12 hours in coach after all, but at least we could lean against one another.

We landed in Toronto at a tad after dawn. As the sun's first rays gleamed on the wings of the plane the many Hasids among us began praying and davening in their seats. How are you not supposed to look at this? It's not something you see everyday or even on the LA to London flights. As soon as we land A. is all over the El Al employees at the Toronto terminal. He wants to sit in our original seats and he isn't going to stop until they give us those damn seats. I on the other hand have noticed that a group of Orthodox Jews are starting prayer service in the corner. These are regular looking guys who've pulled out their prayer shawls and the teeny, tiny top hats that they wear at a jaunty angle on the front of their heads, attached with straps that wrap all the way down the arm. Kind of like bondage gear. I move closer to watch as they bob in prayer, chanting aloud and facing the wall. I ask A. what the teeny tiny top hat is for and he tells me that it allows God a direct line through their foreheads and into their brains.

I believe him for like two minutes.

I very much want to take pictures of these guys, but I got in so much trouble taking pictures of the Hassidics in Jersualem I'm afraid that they'll yell at me too. And I will have a long ride home with them so I don't want them hating on me. I actually aooreciate all the praying by the Fiddler crew and by these guys too. When you're flying on a plane, up at 35,000 feet, you can never have too much prayer.

A. made a huge scene with the El Al people and I left him at the gate to go the the seat that they assigned me. They found two seats together in the center section for us and, note to self, when flying in the 2-3-2 configuration with another person ask for seats in the center section, aisle and aisle, at the rear of the plane. Odds are you'll get the whole three seats to yourselves. A. wore down the El Al agent and got himself upgraded to first class which serves me right for leaving him, but I did get both of our seats for just me and slept for a good three hours. He roamed the plane because he doesn't like to sit without me, and I do believe it turned out that there was no room for him up there.

When we landed we blew through customs and our bags were the first ones off the plane. They were freezing cold as if they didn't actually make it into the luggage compartment, but were strapped to the outside of the plane. I didn't really care because our luggage came down the conveyor and then they shut it off leaving everyone else to stand there for who knows how long while we jumped into a cab and got home by 11:00am.

I managed to stay up until 8pm that night and woke up on Monday at 6am raring to go without a bit of jet lag. Yeah! A. was puking by 2:30 and moaning and crying all night. I took care of him and he was just starting to feel better when I crashed. He wasn't quite well enough to take care of me although he did totter out to the kitchen to get me some ice chips, but it was hell for 24 hours and as we laid there in agony he looked at me and said, "it's against the rules for you to get sick at the same time as me - who's going to take care of me?"

Oh puhlease.

The jet lag came on with the virus and neither one of us felt well or human until after Memorial Day. I spoke with A.'s brother at the end of last week and he told me that his little boy had a horrible stomach virus the week after we left so we probably got it from him.

And gave it to all those people on the plane with us.

I certainly hope their prayers included good health and no airborne diseases.