The Two Hours' Hate

In truth, this post has been simmering for a while, even before I saw Michael Moore's latest. But I figured I should at least see it before I slam it. And it's a good thing I did, because, truth be told, I'm even more irate than I thought possible.

I don't even know where to begin and I'm quite frankly not even going to try; I have neither the writing skills nor the research discipline of some of the people who have already torn this movie to shreds. To be sure, there was the usual Moore-movie paraphenalia: the skillfully-plucked camera shot that makes his opponent look like a moron, the same stuff that the Daily Show does with John Kerry on a nightly basis; the amusing comic-reelish mockery of an opposing viewpoint, which, by the way, preys relentlessly on a parade of racial stereotypes just a few minutes after hinting that all Republicans are stock racists; the list goes on, and it's familiar to anyone who's ever seen a Moore movie in the past.

But the greatest irony of all was Moore reading a quote from 1984. Because if anything in this movie, packed as it was with moronic conspiracy theories and all sorts of proto-fascist alarm bells, was plucked from Orwell, it was the concept itself. Fahrenheit 9/11 is the feature-length version of the Two Minutes' Hate: one massive exercise in emotional manipulation, designed to beat viewers over and over again with raw imagery and clumsy innuendo and sobbing parents and forlorn soldiers until their brains are unable to comprehend anything else but The Message. And throughout, never too far away, is the smirking face of The Enemy and his shadowy neoconservative Brotherhood, reminding everyone exactly where to direct their newfound hatred. Hence immediate reactions like this. And hence the devastating analyses that have poured in from the realm of rational thought, a place several days removed from seeing this film.

Which, of course, means that I probably shouldn't be firing this off a couple of hours after the movie let out. But this movie is everything I hate about politics wrapped up into two hours. It infuriated me on levels that Bowling For Columbine couldn't even begin to touch. The subtext is simple, especially during an extended rant about the media: Question everything you see. (Except for this movie.) All "facts" need checking. (Except the ones I supply.) No one is telling you the truth. (Except me. And don't you dare doubt it.) It is propaganda at its absolute, most intolerant and stifling worst, the province of the Coulters and Hannitys and Brocks and Chomskys, the kind of idiotic crap that tells you the slimmest possible version of the truth without brooking argument. Is there possibly anything more insulting than the man whose screams for "open debate" are intended to kill any sort of debate at all? Possibly nothing, except for the fact that Moore's hordes of half-witted followers are going to do exactly that. They're going to buy this schlock without even thinking for a second, "Hey, was there anything in this movie that was possibly inaccurate?" They're going to see it six times and memorize lines of voice-over as talking points. And then they're going to run out and get into arguments with people like me, telling me I'm the idiot sheep without even a hint of irony. And when that happens, for all of his moralizing, Michael Moore is going to sit back and feel very proud.

Still Alive

I know I haven't posted in a while, even discounting the usual weekend outage. But rest assured I'm alive and well, even despite a really, really idiotic incident with an offshore outcrop of rocks at the beach in Tel Aviv. More on that later when I actually feel like it, but don't worry: I came away with nothing more than a vague moronic feeling and what's shaping up to be a pretty cool scar on my hand.

Comic Relief

I stumbled across a great Jerusalem blog today called Jerusalem Wanderings. A lot more insight and serious posting than I've cared to do up until this point, so it's definitely worth taking a look. I thought this joke that I found there needed immediate sharing, though:

Two Arabs boarded a flight out of London. One took a window seat and the other sat next to him in the middle seat. Just before takeoff, an American sat down in the aisle seat. After takeoff, the American kicked his shoes off, wiggled his toes and was settling in when the Arab in the window seat said, "I need to get up and get a coke." "Don't get up" said the American, "I'm in the aisle seat. I'll get it for you." As soon as he left, one of the Arabs picked up the American's shoe and spat in it. When he returned with the coke, the other Arab said, "That looks good, I'd really like one, too."
Again, the American obligingly went to fetch it. While he was gone the other Arab picked up his other shoe and spat in it. When the American returned, they all
sat back and enjoyed the flight. As the plane was landing, the American slipped his feet into his shoes and knew immediately what had happened.
"Why does it have to be this way?" he asked.
"How long must this go on?
This fighting between our nations?
This hatred?
This animosity?
This spitting in shoes and pissing in cokes."

Decision

If the purpose of this trip was to make a decision on my future Israel-related plans (and, at base, it was), I've definitely made it: I have no interest in moving here, for any length of time, ever. Which kind of shocks me. After the Birthright trip, I was all enthusiasm for making aliyah, if probably temporarily, or volunteering for a year in the IDF, or something similar. Granted, Birthright is not the most objective view of Israel, as my roommates have pointed out; there is, or at least was in my group, not something so stark as propaganda being presented, but at the very least a real effort to import a bumper-sticker slogan I keep seeing around: "I Love NY, but Jerusalem is Home."

But it's not. And I know this is an idea that depends heavily on whether or not one sees himself as an "American" or a "Jew". Which makes it not only a highly subjective and personal decision, but one that's of even more limited scope in that it's unique to American Jews; I don't think a French Jew, for instance, could credibly say that he has the option of making that choice of national identity. In any case, this trip has pretty much answered that question for me: I am most decidedly American above all. Not that Israel isn't wonderful, or that I'm having a bad time, or that Hebrew U. wasn't a worthwhile decision. But at the same time, I miss the states and I realize that I'll never be able to replace baseball with soccer, or English with Hebrew, or New York with Tel Aviv, and actually, seriously feel like I'm where I belong or pursuing an identity I know is mine. And it's certainly more than just being uncomfortable in the native language. Even the scope of the two countries, at least to me, is palpably different. Even for a cynic, America is still a place where the country matches and sustains any ambition, without fail or limit; Israel seems more and more to me like a place where, for all I admire about it, limits and barriers have seeped themselves into the psychological fabric of living here. But whatever the reason, the decision remains the same.

Speaking of Americana, the Fourth went off without a hitch, sans property damage or even a lot of undue inebriation. The worst thing I could say about the night is that when we proceeded to a bar where Americans were supposedly gathering (only sort-of true), the Euro 2004 finals were on TV rather than baseball. I did miss fireworks on the beach and all the usual, but next year.

Notes From The Weekend

1. If a friend offers you a drink called a Polish Butterfly, avoid at all costs. Alternately, if a friend tells to take a shot of contents unbeknownst to you, and the waiter brings said shot along with a glass of water saying "Trust me, you'll need it" (as was my case), again, AVOID AT ALL COSTS.


2. My lungs officially hate me for the rest of eternity. More on this later.


3. If in a foreign country and searching for a restaurant, make sure the address of the restaurant actually exists. Seriously.


4. The above nonwithstanding, my sense of direction is unfailing and entirely, 100% accurate under all circumstances, even in the midst of foreign cities. If you ever travel with me, I urge you to remember this.


5. On a closing note, it is my solemn right and duty as a citizen of the United States to get really drunk, eat burgers, and possibly cause property damage with fireworks today. Which generally sums up our plans for tonight.

Happy Fourth, everyone!

Dear Parents:

Not that it's all THAT bad, but once you get the cell phone bill, you will understand this current offer to somehow pay it off for you.

(Actually, I already know how this is going to be done. One of our friends has an amazing house in HaMoshava HaGermanit, a nice area of the city. Where we will, of course, be throwing a party at which we will charge to get in, charge after a certain number of drinks, and rent out the upstairs rooms to...enterprising couples for 150 shekels on the half-hour. Then, we're going to use that to charter a bus to Eilat and sell seats to the massive number of kids going there at the end of July. At this point, I'm getting out; the others are apparently going to use that capital to set up a lucrative drug smuggling ring in the Sinai, but I've got a car to buy. So don't worry, the bill is as good as paid.)

Not-so-broken Hebrew

This language, as it turns out, is coming along pretty well. Today was the first big test day, which produced a 92 that was heavily contingent on stupid mistakes. So I'm actually doing pretty well; I can say all sorts of useful things like "Danny is Ruthy's husband" or "Is the shower in the apartment new or old?", but somehow we're not yet ready to even look at the infitives of verbs yet. This I won't even attempt to figure out. But nevertheless, I can actually communicate with the roommates in sporadic Hebrew every once in a while, mostly when the right situation (i.e. one of the ridiculous ones that has come up in the textbook) comes up and they don't feel like practicing their English. The other Max (Brief aside: There's a second Max, Max Brodsky, that I've become good friends with. Despite being from Texas and going to Harvard, he's become known mostly for being short; thus he's Max Ktsat (Little Max) and I'm Max Gadol (Big Max). I'm seriously recommending that people call me Max Gadol in a loud voice around large groups of women. This is going to do wonders for my social career in Israel, I think. Now, back to the point.) has the advantage of actually knowing enough Hebrew so that he can practice with his roommates while they speak English to him, which is a great arrangement. But of course, I am functionally Hebrew-illiterate for the time being, so that'll have to wait.

Attempts at Productivity

Yesterday's big event (at least, that is, before we packed a hookah bar with about five cabs' worth of kids, but that's an entirely different story) was joining the ridiculously nice Hebrew U. gym/workout-related palace. Reasons for doing so:

1. A nice big grass field, possibly the only one in Jerusalem, and deck chairs, which also means lithe Israeli college women in swimsuits.


2. Laying out in the sun means I can feel productive while I actually stare at the textbook for two minutes and then fall asleep.


3. Pool.


4. Workout machine/TV area, but this is of limited value; I did 25 minutes on the elliptical today, producing probably a gallon of sweat and an exhausted two-hour nap. I won't speculate on whether that had any relation to the previous night of drinking.

And, in the continuing list of reasons why I love Israel, looking back over my shoulder as I walk out gives me a view of the Old City and the Dome of the Rock. Which is just slightly better than going to the JCC.

011-972-52-456-3723

That's the cell, for those interested. First person to forget the time zone difference and call at 3:00 am gets a prize of no monetary value and a beating in August.