I’m sure whoever reads this blog knows all about the disengagement, and how the color orange is being used. Meanwhile, those in favor have started using the color blue, with somewhat less success. Orange is the color of the anti-disengagement forces, the “Jews don’t evict other Jews” slogan-chanters. Blue is the color of pro-disengagement “Peace Now” activists.
Until recently, I’ve been pro-disengagement. There’s not much of a connection between Gush Katif and Eretz Yisrael, I believed, and if it could be traded for peace, then so be it. I’ve recently (And by recently, I mean slowly, over much time, and after much thought.) revised my opinion (Read: Changed my mind.) to be anti the current disengagement. Now I think that a unilateral disengagement would only be a reward to terror, and while I still believe strongly in using Gush Katif as currency in barter for peace, we would only be getting ripped off at the present exchange rate.
Here’s my problem, though. I don’t have a color expressing my opinion. Maybe yellow? Grey? Turquoise? Blue is for the people who want to give it all away; I’m not going to wear that. But orange isn’t my color either. It’s hard to find an orange shirt that doesn’t say “Jews don’t evict Jews,” or “Gush Katif is our home,” or some other idea on the never-give-it-away line. I think it can be given away, under the right circumstances. But where do I find somebody giving away centrist yellow T-shirts saying “Jews don’t evict Jews… without guarantees of peace,” or “Gush Katif is our home… until the proper time comes to trade it for a peace agreement?” Nuanced positions lack sound-byte worthy strength, and it’s a shame, because it’s the people holding those positions that can bring the extremists on both sides together.
I went rock climbing today. Not actual rocks, more like walls. I went wall climbing today. I climbed like 5 walls. Now, most of you who may be familiar with my blogging schedule know that I usually post a week or two after an event. You may think that this is to let whatever monumentous occasion it was sink in, but really it’s just because I’m lazy. Yoni, however, posted within minutes of getting home, with a rock-climbing-poem, no less, so I feel obligated to follow suit, though you’ll find no poetry here. My one and only concession to poetry was a month ago, and that’s too often. If I let myself do that too often, I’ll just end up posting song lyrics every other day and call that blogging. Like this guy here (No offence, TRK…).
Back to rock climbing. The first thing that struck me was that adults in the place would trust one eight year old to belay another at heights that would, to say the least, hurt lots.
The gym itself was pretty cool. It was pretty big, had thin meter-wide strips of rock climbing wall all around, of various difficulty. Some of them were absolutely impossible; some of them were pretty easy. At the very end we went up some of the easier walls, because our arms hurt so much from the hard ones (Yoni claims his arms were fine. I don’t believe him.). The last wall we went on was yellow, on a really easy slope and with lots of easy places to grip. This was Yoni:
Yoni climbs wall.
Yoni: This is so easy! It’s like walking up stairs!
Yoni slips and falls down.
Yoni: OK… That was more like falling down stairs.
Me: Ha Ha Ha.
I think I’m going to buy a membership at the place and go more often.
I think we’ve all been there. You get invited to a wedding because you know the bride or the groom, but you’re not actually a part of the circle of friends. You get put at a table with other similarly associated people, and nobody at the table knows each other. If this ever happens to you (and if it hasn’t, it will) there’s really only one thing to do; stuff yourself silly.
That’s right, eat like there’s no tomorrow. Cruise the shmorg, eat all the little hot dogs you can, scarf down that shishkabob. When it comes time for the main course, eat quick, and then move to empty seats that haven’t been served yet, and eat some more. Get doubles or triples. Make them pay. And do not go home hungry.
I hate people who don’t know how to say phone numbers.
You know exactly what I’m talking about. You ask somebody (usually an Israeli) for their number, and instead of the usual XXX – XXX- XXXX, you get some sort of retarded XXXX – XX – XXXX or something equally random. It needlessly throws you off, and makes you sound like a moron when you ask them to repeat themselves several times. It’s not you who’s the moron, it’s them! Jerks.
Now, I have a feeling I’m about to get pounced on by people who want to defend Israelis. “But it’s not fair to simply expect Israelis to get on board with the American 3 – 3 – 4 system! They have their own way of doing things, and you, Menachem, as an Oleh, should adapt to them. Not the other way around.” Excellent point if Israelis had a pre-existing standard. But they don’t. It’s just a random, chaotic, grouping of ten numbers, any which way you want. It all started, I think, last year, when the phone companies introduced the 10th digit. Before then, everybody was happy, with a standard 3 – 3 – 3 system. But then the new digit comes in, and they put it, of all places, in the fourth slot. Everybody’s screwed.
The thing that really pisses me off? People who think they’re being cute, and say things like ‘twenty one,’ instead of ‘two one.’ What the hell is the point of that? 052 377 2445 (my first Israeli phone number, six years ago, adjusted for the retard digit) is oh five two, three seven seven, two four four five. When you start fooling around with idiot equations like zero fifty two, three seventy seven, twenty four forty five, you end up with impossible numbers like 0502 3707 204405. People who say numbers like that will be the first against the wall when the revolution comes. You know who you are. I will report you if you don’t stop.
For the web-savvy anti-Zionist in you. This is the sort of stuff that makes me want to be not religious anymore.