Article II section 1 of the US Constitution states the qualifications of the presidency of the United States as follows:
"No person except a natural born citizen, or a citizen of the United States, at the time of the adoption of this Constitution, shall be eligible to the office of President; neither shall any person be eligible to that office who shall not have attained to the age of thirty five years, and been fourteen Years a resident within the United States."
There has been a surprising amount of arcane -- even Talmudic -- legal argumentation claiming that either Barack Hussein Obama or John Sidney McCain III* is ineligible to be elected president because they do not, or did not at the time of their births, qualify as "natural born citizens" of the United States.
Snopes.com (one of my favorite websites) has articles on both questions here and here
Both issues hinge, not unlike the question of the Second Amendment, on the exegesis of vague 18th century terminology.
The claim against Barack Hussein Obama is plainly stupid. Allegedly, the citizenship law at the time of his birth required that in the case of a child of whose parents only one was a US citizen, that citizen must have resided in the US for more than 5 years after the age of 16 for the child to likewise be considered a "natural born citizen." The genius who thought this up, though, ignored the fact that Barack Hussein Obama was born in Hawaii in 1961, two years after the 50th state was admitted to the Union. Everyone born within the United States is automatically a "natural born citizen," so the whole this is moot.
The claim against John Sidney McCain III is actually much more substantive. Although both of his parents were US citizens, the presumptive Republican nominee was born in the Panama Canal Zone in 1937. The question hinges on whether a child born in a US territory on a US naval base to US citizens counts as "natural born." A law that came into effect just before John Sidney McCain III's first birthday resolves that problem, but it also dubious whether the law can be considered retroactive. Regardless of the legal technicalities, though, there is even more question how this could be challenged in court and who would conceivably have standing as an injured party to file a suit. So, while there is a possible legal interpretation that would make John Sidney McCain III ineligible for the presidency, the courts cannot really act on it even if they wanted to, so the point here is likewise moot.
How bizarre is this that such interpretation is necessary in a modern democratic nation? The parallels to the halakhic process should be obvious. We have a sacred text, like the Torah, that is in many places vague and incomplete. Then we have a tradition of scholars and jurists, like the rabbis, who have analyzed every jot and tittle of the text and have tried to pry as much meaning of it as possible, even from its punctuation (which is not unlike Rabbi Akiva finding legal points in the spelling of words and the ornamental flourishes on the letters). Their decisions then become part of our "Oral Torah" to which all subsequent decisors must refer before making their own decisions. One advantage of the secular process: we can overturn rulings that we disagree with. While previous generations thought slavery, segregation, and sodomy laws were just fine and dandy, the process allows us the opportunity to correct their mistakes. Orthodox Jews have a much harder situation since they have to accept each psak as binding and if they want to change the law they have to create some elaborate work-around which just makes things ever so burdensome.
This is fine, I suppose, in religion. I've read opinions by some Jewish authors that the process of legal interpretation and the practical application of halakhah is itself a form of prayer or worship. Good for them. But just as I question why any kind of God would need to reveal His will in such a ludicrously arcane and indirect way, I wonder why our constitutional law needs to be the same way. I think that if there really were a God who gives us laws and wants us to follow them, He would have given us not the Torah but something like Maimonidies Mishneh Torah or Joseph Karo's Shulkhan Arukh: a rational, ordered, cross-referenced, and indexed code of law that tells us what we are supposed to do how and when. \
No doubt the Founding Fathers thought they were doing just this, although one would think they should have been able to foresee possible confusions or misinterpretations of their words. They had long enough to debate the issues: did no one think it worthwhile to clarify what a "natural born citizen" was to mean? I have to assume that sentences like "A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed" would have been perfectly intelligible to 18th century Anglo-American colonials but could their intent not have been spelled out a wee bit clearer?
It appears that our only hope is to have faith in the process. I have had plenty of long and sometimes heated discussions on the topic of halakhah with Hayyim, my friend who is both gay and a BDSM enthusiast while also Sephardic and Orthodox. He agrees that the Torah does not forbid gay sex, that women should not be hidden behind a screen or prohibited from singing, and that they should have completely equal rights and freedoms and roles in Jewish life. The difference is that he continues to identify as Orthodox and attends Orthodox synagogues while I consider Orthodox Judaism to be cut from the same cloth as fundamentalist Christianity and Wahabbist Islam. He says that while he doesn't agree with the halakhah as it currently stands, he has faith in the halakhic system and trusts that eventually our opinions will be vindicated. I do not share that faith. There is too much that is unjust, offensive, and just plain silly to be tolerated.
In the secular realm, this means that we have to have faith in the justices of our federal courts and we have to rely on them to engage in the "judicial activism" that the conservatives get so angry about whenever a decision is made that they don't agree with. That is also why the makeup of the Supreme Court is of vital importance and why this election in particular is so crucial. If John Sidney McCain III should will, we will have a right-wing majority on the bench. Presidents come and go, but the decisions of the Supreme Court have repercussions for generations. This is why I simply cannot fathom those people who are unsure of voting for Barack Hussein Obama, especially Jews who can give no more specific reason than "he makes them uncomfortable" or they're afraid he'll be "bad for Israel." Whatever happened to a government of laws, not of men?
If only it were so simple as disqualifying a candidate based on legal obscurities.
* I'm so sick of conservatives using Obama's full name as a scare tactic. It's childish and silly, so I'll highlight that childishness and silliness by using McCain's full name, too.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Golden Girl
Estelle Getty died yesterday just shy of 85.
As Sofia Petrillo on The Golden Girls, she had a prominent place in the cultural landscape of my childhood. I was a shy and sheltered kid, a loner by inclination and by parental overbearance. I didn't interact enough with my peers to be cool and in touch with the current trends. I was never au courrant and I still am not today. I dove into whatever interested me, regardless of where I found it. I can't recall how or when I first started watching The Golden Girls (it aired from when I was 6 to when I was 13) but I enjoyed it. It made me laugh, and something about the warm relationship between catty and campy older women resonated with me (how could I have ever entertained the notion that I wasn't gay?).
When the show moved to Lifetime ("Television for Women...and Gay Men") I was thrilled to have it one at least three times a day. In high school, it would be on just about the time I got home for hour followed by Designing Women, and then it was on again at the end of the evening around 11:00, and would usually be the last thing I'd watch before going to bed. I was thrilled when I moved into one of the upperclass dorms in college, granting me cable and access once more to 1980's geriatric Miami (which seemed a fantasy land compared to my real life).
Estelle, as Sofia, contributed many words to my vocabulary, including "slut" -- which got me sent to the principal's office in 6th grade.
I guess I've gotten to the age now when one's pop culture staples start dying. It feels like someone I know is gone. At least The Golden Girls is still on cable and on DVD. Betty White summed it up very sweetly: The only comfort at this moment is that although Estelle has moved on, Sophia will always be with us."
Things I Hate About Living in Westchester 1
Living by a timetable
Westchester does have its nice spots and interesting places. However, they are few and far between and everything closes up and goes to bed once the sun sets. The city is like a black hole of culture and entertainment, sucking everything into its event horizon. If you want to do anything more interesting than sitting around watching TV all night, you pretty much have to go into the city. Moreover, the city is also an economic black hole: it's where the jobs, including mine, happen to be. The city is where my friends are, where my synagogue is, where my doctors are. It's where I have to spend at least 9 hours every work day in order to be able to pay for the house I unwisely bought in Ossining.
That lovely little town on the Hudson, however, is 23 miles north of northernmost boundary of the city. There are only two ways to get there from here (or, since I'm writing this from my office, here from there): car or train. Driving is absolutely out of the question. Even if the traffic arteries into the city were not hopelessly clogged and dangerous, the tolls are punitive and there's nowhere to park once you get there. Train, in this case Metronorth, is the only realistic option.
In many ways, Metronorth has its advantages. I used to live on Broadway and W. 242nd St. in the Bronx, across from Van Cortlandt Park. This was conveniently right at the end of the #1 subway line. It took me about an hour from door to door to get to work in the morning, riding the #1 local all the way into Times Square. The subway, however, is the subway. Being at the start of the line, I was always guaranteed a seat in the morning, but the trains fill up and soon I would be crammed in on all sides with strangers' asses pressed into my face and nothing to do but play "guess that odor." On the trip home, I would have to stand crammed in like livestock for maybe 10 or 11 stops until a seat might miraculously open up. Then, of course, there's the colorful cavalcade of homeless people, religious fanatics, musicians, and youths selling candy for alleged basketball uniforms that take advantage of the captive audiences. Anyone who's even visited New York knows the deal.
Metronorth has none of that. The ride is comfortable and quick one is pretty much always guaranteed a seat. The only people who parade through the train and back invading your personal space are the conductors. The cars are clean and devoid of mysterious stains and sticky patches. The time isn't even all that bad: it takes me just about the same amount of time to get to my office via Metronorth and Grand Central as it did from the Bronx via the subway. I can generally spread out and sit comfortably and lose myself in my books while enjoying my breakfast and coffee in relative tranquility.
The one significant difference is this: the subway is always running. It doesn't matter what time of the day or night: if you wait at least fifteen minutes or so there will be a train to take you home. Running late in the morning? No big deal: if you miss one train in the morning the next one will leave right away.
Not so with Metronorth. There is a fixed time table generally with 20 to 30 minute intervals between trains. My house is also a 15-minute walk from the train station, which would just be unbearable were it not for the van the home owner's association provides in the morning and in the afternoon. The van, however, is also on a timetable and only meets four trains in the morning and four in the evening. If I'm not out the door at 7:35, then I have to be ready at 8:05 or else I walk and miss the train. I'm supposed to be at work at 9:00. If I take the van that leaves at 7:35, I get there at 8:40; If I take the 8:05, I get in at 9:15. Usually, the latter is not a problem, but I don't like being late.
So 8:05 is the terminus ad quem for getting ready in the morning, and most mornings that leaves me in a panic as I have to get washed and dressed, make my lunch, and walk the dogs. God forbid one should also oversleep, as I did this morning. I hate feeling rushed in general, and especially first thing in the morning, but the only solution is to get up at an ungodly hour which leaves me groggy and miserable the rest of the day.
At night, Metronorth conveniently stops running between about 2:00 and 6:00 AM. If you miss that train that leaves at 1:50 AM, then you will have to fight the homeless people for a corner to sleep in because you're going nowhere. This certainly puts a limit on one's nightlife. Even on a regular evening, if you miss the 10:20 PM train, your next option is 11:10 PM, and what the hell is there to do in Grand Central for 40 minutes in the middle of the night?
Some day, I'll be able to move back into the city, but not in the foreseeable future. Until then, this is just one of the many things I have to endure and resent about living in Westchester.
Westchester does have its nice spots and interesting places. However, they are few and far between and everything closes up and goes to bed once the sun sets. The city is like a black hole of culture and entertainment, sucking everything into its event horizon. If you want to do anything more interesting than sitting around watching TV all night, you pretty much have to go into the city. Moreover, the city is also an economic black hole: it's where the jobs, including mine, happen to be. The city is where my friends are, where my synagogue is, where my doctors are. It's where I have to spend at least 9 hours every work day in order to be able to pay for the house I unwisely bought in Ossining.
That lovely little town on the Hudson, however, is 23 miles north of northernmost boundary of the city. There are only two ways to get there from here (or, since I'm writing this from my office, here from there): car or train. Driving is absolutely out of the question. Even if the traffic arteries into the city were not hopelessly clogged and dangerous, the tolls are punitive and there's nowhere to park once you get there. Train, in this case Metronorth, is the only realistic option.
In many ways, Metronorth has its advantages. I used to live on Broadway and W. 242nd St. in the Bronx, across from Van Cortlandt Park. This was conveniently right at the end of the #1 subway line. It took me about an hour from door to door to get to work in the morning, riding the #1 local all the way into Times Square. The subway, however, is the subway. Being at the start of the line, I was always guaranteed a seat in the morning, but the trains fill up and soon I would be crammed in on all sides with strangers' asses pressed into my face and nothing to do but play "guess that odor." On the trip home, I would have to stand crammed in like livestock for maybe 10 or 11 stops until a seat might miraculously open up. Then, of course, there's the colorful cavalcade of homeless people, religious fanatics, musicians, and youths selling candy for alleged basketball uniforms that take advantage of the captive audiences. Anyone who's even visited New York knows the deal.
Metronorth has none of that. The ride is comfortable and quick one is pretty much always guaranteed a seat. The only people who parade through the train and back invading your personal space are the conductors. The cars are clean and devoid of mysterious stains and sticky patches. The time isn't even all that bad: it takes me just about the same amount of time to get to my office via Metronorth and Grand Central as it did from the Bronx via the subway. I can generally spread out and sit comfortably and lose myself in my books while enjoying my breakfast and coffee in relative tranquility.
The one significant difference is this: the subway is always running. It doesn't matter what time of the day or night: if you wait at least fifteen minutes or so there will be a train to take you home. Running late in the morning? No big deal: if you miss one train in the morning the next one will leave right away.
Not so with Metronorth. There is a fixed time table generally with 20 to 30 minute intervals between trains. My house is also a 15-minute walk from the train station, which would just be unbearable were it not for the van the home owner's association provides in the morning and in the afternoon. The van, however, is also on a timetable and only meets four trains in the morning and four in the evening. If I'm not out the door at 7:35, then I have to be ready at 8:05 or else I walk and miss the train. I'm supposed to be at work at 9:00. If I take the van that leaves at 7:35, I get there at 8:40; If I take the 8:05, I get in at 9:15. Usually, the latter is not a problem, but I don't like being late.
So 8:05 is the terminus ad quem for getting ready in the morning, and most mornings that leaves me in a panic as I have to get washed and dressed, make my lunch, and walk the dogs. God forbid one should also oversleep, as I did this morning. I hate feeling rushed in general, and especially first thing in the morning, but the only solution is to get up at an ungodly hour which leaves me groggy and miserable the rest of the day.
At night, Metronorth conveniently stops running between about 2:00 and 6:00 AM. If you miss that train that leaves at 1:50 AM, then you will have to fight the homeless people for a corner to sleep in because you're going nowhere. This certainly puts a limit on one's nightlife. Even on a regular evening, if you miss the 10:20 PM train, your next option is 11:10 PM, and what the hell is there to do in Grand Central for 40 minutes in the middle of the night?
Some day, I'll be able to move back into the city, but not in the foreseeable future. Until then, this is just one of the many things I have to endure and resent about living in Westchester.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
China Itinerary
I got the brochure and itinerary for the China trip from my mom yesterday, and I'm now officially excited. The trip was obviously designed for business people, as the brochure informs me that I "will be traveling with other business leaders and chamber of commerce members." Still, anyone is welcome to join -- probably due to some kind of non-discrimination laws.
We will be traveling "in an informal setting with experienced and knowledgeable guides" (read "government spies"). My cousin Raymond went to Russia back in the 80s and he and his fellow visitors were kept on a tight leash by their Inturist representative and its certain that at least one "tourist" was really a KGB plant. They weren't allowed to go anywhere without permission or supervision, and I wonder if China -- being likewise a totalitarian dictatorship -- will be the same?
Well, I'll find out. The trip is 9 days total:
Day 1 10/28: Leave JFK at 3:30 PM for Beijing, crossing the International Date Line (which I still do not quite understand).
Day 2 10/29: Arrive in Beijing at 6:00 PM. You will be met by your local tour guide at the airport. Transfer to the hotel after dinner (the location of dinner is curiously missing).
Day 3 10/30: Beijing. Visit Tiananmen Square, the Temple of Heaven, and the Palace Musueam (aka the Forbidden City).
Day 4 10/31: Beijing. Tour bus excursion to the Great Wall. Visit the Ming Tombs. Roasted Beijing Duck Dinner (that bit is a little scary).
Day 5 11/1: Beijing/Shanghai/Suzhou. Fly to Shanghai in the morning then take tour bus trip to Suzhou. Afternoon sightseeing to the Lingering Garden, Tiger Hill, and Hanshan Temple. Visit the National Embroidery Museum (woo hoo! who doesn't love embroidery?). Evening dinner show of traditional Chinese music.
Day 6 11/2: Suzhou/Hangzhou. Morning bus journey to Hangzhou. Visit the Economic Development Zone (I have no idea what this means, but apparently my Toshiba laptop was manufactured here). Visit the Lingyin Temple.
Day 7 11/3: Hangzhou/Shanghai. Morning boat cruise on West Lake "with a relaxing stopover at jewel-like pagodas and tea houses." Afternoon bus trip to Shanghai.
Day 8 11/4: Shanghai. Sightseeing includes the Yuyuan Garden. Visit the Bund. Busienss visit to the Pudong economic development zone (I wonder if everyone has to go to this?).
Day 9 11/5 Shanghai/Beijing/JFK. Morning flight to Beijing. Depart 1:00 PM, arrive 1:30 PM the same day (!)
We will be traveling "in an informal setting with experienced and knowledgeable guides" (read "government spies"). My cousin Raymond went to Russia back in the 80s and he and his fellow visitors were kept on a tight leash by their Inturist representative and its certain that at least one "tourist" was really a KGB plant. They weren't allowed to go anywhere without permission or supervision, and I wonder if China -- being likewise a totalitarian dictatorship -- will be the same?
Well, I'll find out. The trip is 9 days total:
Day 1 10/28: Leave JFK at 3:30 PM for Beijing, crossing the International Date Line (which I still do not quite understand).
Day 2 10/29: Arrive in Beijing at 6:00 PM. You will be met by your local tour guide at the airport. Transfer to the hotel after dinner (the location of dinner is curiously missing).
Day 3 10/30: Beijing. Visit Tiananmen Square, the Temple of Heaven, and the Palace Musueam (aka the Forbidden City).
Day 4 10/31: Beijing. Tour bus excursion to the Great Wall. Visit the Ming Tombs. Roasted Beijing Duck Dinner (that bit is a little scary).
Day 5 11/1: Beijing/Shanghai/Suzhou. Fly to Shanghai in the morning then take tour bus trip to Suzhou. Afternoon sightseeing to the Lingering Garden, Tiger Hill, and Hanshan Temple. Visit the National Embroidery Museum (woo hoo! who doesn't love embroidery?). Evening dinner show of traditional Chinese music.
Day 6 11/2: Suzhou/Hangzhou. Morning bus journey to Hangzhou. Visit the Economic Development Zone (I have no idea what this means, but apparently my Toshiba laptop was manufactured here). Visit the Lingyin Temple.
Day 7 11/3: Hangzhou/Shanghai. Morning boat cruise on West Lake "with a relaxing stopover at jewel-like pagodas and tea houses." Afternoon bus trip to Shanghai.
Day 8 11/4: Shanghai. Sightseeing includes the Yuyuan Garden. Visit the Bund. Busienss visit to the Pudong economic development zone (I wonder if everyone has to go to this?).
Day 9 11/5 Shanghai/Beijing/JFK. Morning flight to Beijing. Depart 1:00 PM, arrive 1:30 PM the same day (!)
Monday, July 21, 2008
Flogging Molly
I like Irish music, generally speaking: I was raised on the stuff and I still know far too many sad love songs about people dying in awful horrible ways and happy war songs about people dying in awful horrible ways. While the traditional stuff is fine, I prefer my music to have a harder rock edge to it. I enjoyed the band Black 47 before they seemed to have disintegrated. During my ill-starred sojourn on the Irish Gaelic Translation Forum, I encountered many people professing adoration for a band called Flogging Molly and asking for translations of their lyrics into the Irish language. I, being the priggish prick that I was, looked down on them and on their band thinking that they must necessarily be inferior Americanized shamrocks-and-leprechauns crap. Boy was I surprised when on a wim I bought one of their albums and downloaded it to my Zune. I like their beat and their sounds, and their lyrics are nice and edgy the way I like them. It's good workout music, too, especially for the treadmill.
Here's the band performing one of their signature songs, "Drunken Lullabies"
Here's the band performing one of their signature songs, "Drunken Lullabies"
Monday
It's 3:00 PM on Monday and I wish I were anywhere but here. It's like I'm in fog that just won't burn away no matter how hotly the may shine. There's nothing for me to do here at work, and so I'm bored; moreover, I worry that maybe I'm forgetting something I should be doing, and so I'm nervous. The plentiful supply of free coffee in the kitchen doesn't help.
The heatwave that has beset us these past few eons (for so it seems) will theoretically subside soon with thunderstorms promised by the meterorological prognosticators on the radio, but I will believe it when I feel it.
Saturday was the monthly Traditional Egalitarian Minyan at CBST. The portion I leyned was one of the ever-so-interesting tribal censuses: 46 verses of "For So-and-so, the clan of Someone, What's-his-name, You-know-who, and That Guy, and their number according to their registration is X thousand and Y hundred" and so forth ad nauseam. I also led Musaf, which was a relief because it gave me something to do and allowed me to take charge and wrap things up expeditiously (the young lady who led Shacharit went verrrryyy slooowwwlyyy). Next month is my turn to deliver a dvar Torah. I did one last year that went pretty well; next month the parashah will be Va'etchannan. I'd better get cracking.
Over lunch, I got to know the new guy, Nick. When he came up from his aliyah, I could tell by his Hebrew name that we had the same parents, and that gave us a connection to talk about. Turns out that his background is rather similar to mine in its general patterns. He's cute, too, although unfortunately he has a boyfriend. Anyhow, I think he'd be a valuable addition to our minyan (he actually knows his way around a siddur) and he could be a potential friend. He and his boyfriend would like to have dinner with me sometime, and I think will definitely take them up on that offer. Lest I feel jealous, they live in Nassau County. I'm so sick of envying Manhattanites and even Jersey Citizens that it's nice to finally meet someone who lives in an even more God-foresaken part of the world thant I do.
Afterward, I headed up to Washington Heights to enjoy a few hours of intramural atheltics with my friend MG, and architect and interior designer that I met at a NY Jacks party back in June.* It was the perfect way to escape from the heat. I had intended from there to take the #1 train up to Marble Hill and there connect with Metro North, but once again my enemies at the MTA decided to spite me. The trains were shut down for maintenance, so I had to take a shuttle bus from Dyckman St. to 215th St. then the subway from 215th to 225th-Marble Hill, then I had to wait half and hour for Metro North. I hate living in suburbia.
We bought a new 46" plasma screen TV and so the living room has been completely discombobulated assembling and stationing it. It was so messy that I was feeling anxious, waiting for 3 stars to appear so I could start on the housework.** I was reaonably productive that evening, and fell asleep contented.
Sunday was again unbearably hot and so my plans with S to go play minigolf in Queens were shot. I slept in until 10 and then went to the gym. Unfortunately, I pulled something doing shoulder presses and had to cut my workout short. After grocery shopping, I returned to the welcoming bosom of central air conditioning more more mindless housework. S finally got the new TV working so we watched Across The Universe until I fell asleep.
I feel like I'm trapped in a vast, gray, featureless wasteland. I thought getting back on the Wellbutrin would have helped, but it hasn't. At least my copy of Jacquelyn Carey's Kushiel's Mercy came on Saturday.
* For a while now I've been sensitive about disclosing activities of a sexual nature on the off chance certain people who know me might find this blog. Now, I don't care so much any more.
** While I believe in and observe the prohibition of the 39 avot melakhah on Shabbat, my research into these laws in the Talmud and codes has led me to conclude that neither driving a car nor utilizing public transportation are actually probibited d'oraita nor is transferring or carrying objects due to the absence of a true reshut harabbim.
The heatwave that has beset us these past few eons (for so it seems) will theoretically subside soon with thunderstorms promised by the meterorological prognosticators on the radio, but I will believe it when I feel it.
Saturday was the monthly Traditional Egalitarian Minyan at CBST. The portion I leyned was one of the ever-so-interesting tribal censuses: 46 verses of "For So-and-so, the clan of Someone, What's-his-name, You-know-who, and That Guy, and their number according to their registration is X thousand and Y hundred" and so forth ad nauseam. I also led Musaf, which was a relief because it gave me something to do and allowed me to take charge and wrap things up expeditiously (the young lady who led Shacharit went verrrryyy slooowwwlyyy). Next month is my turn to deliver a dvar Torah. I did one last year that went pretty well; next month the parashah will be Va'etchannan. I'd better get cracking.
Over lunch, I got to know the new guy, Nick. When he came up from his aliyah, I could tell by his Hebrew name that we had the same parents, and that gave us a connection to talk about. Turns out that his background is rather similar to mine in its general patterns. He's cute, too, although unfortunately he has a boyfriend. Anyhow, I think he'd be a valuable addition to our minyan (he actually knows his way around a siddur) and he could be a potential friend. He and his boyfriend would like to have dinner with me sometime, and I think will definitely take them up on that offer. Lest I feel jealous, they live in Nassau County. I'm so sick of envying Manhattanites and even Jersey Citizens that it's nice to finally meet someone who lives in an even more God-foresaken part of the world thant I do.
Afterward, I headed up to Washington Heights to enjoy a few hours of intramural atheltics with my friend MG, and architect and interior designer that I met at a NY Jacks party back in June.* It was the perfect way to escape from the heat. I had intended from there to take the #1 train up to Marble Hill and there connect with Metro North, but once again my enemies at the MTA decided to spite me. The trains were shut down for maintenance, so I had to take a shuttle bus from Dyckman St. to 215th St. then the subway from 215th to 225th-Marble Hill, then I had to wait half and hour for Metro North. I hate living in suburbia.
We bought a new 46" plasma screen TV and so the living room has been completely discombobulated assembling and stationing it. It was so messy that I was feeling anxious, waiting for 3 stars to appear so I could start on the housework.** I was reaonably productive that evening, and fell asleep contented.
Sunday was again unbearably hot and so my plans with S to go play minigolf in Queens were shot. I slept in until 10 and then went to the gym. Unfortunately, I pulled something doing shoulder presses and had to cut my workout short. After grocery shopping, I returned to the welcoming bosom of central air conditioning more more mindless housework. S finally got the new TV working so we watched Across The Universe until I fell asleep.
I feel like I'm trapped in a vast, gray, featureless wasteland. I thought getting back on the Wellbutrin would have helped, but it hasn't. At least my copy of Jacquelyn Carey's Kushiel's Mercy came on Saturday.
* For a while now I've been sensitive about disclosing activities of a sexual nature on the off chance certain people who know me might find this blog. Now, I don't care so much any more.
** While I believe in and observe the prohibition of the 39 avot melakhah on Shabbat, my research into these laws in the Talmud and codes has led me to conclude that neither driving a car nor utilizing public transportation are actually probibited d'oraita nor is transferring or carrying objects due to the absence of a true reshut harabbim.
Where are they now?
That last post got me very nostalgic all of a sudden. In the ten years since I came out, I've had three very close friends, all of whom have inexplicably dropped out of my life. I've racked my brain for years trying to figure out what went wrong, trying to see what I could have done to drive them away. I hope it's not too over-dramatic to say they all left holes in my life that have not healed. I still wonder what has become of them:
Aron McLaughlin
Aron and I first met through Gwen, my "girlfriend" in my freshman year of college. Aron had been a classmate and friend of hers who was her date to the Snow Ball, the campus winter formal, in her freshman year. I was her date in her sophomore year. Poor Gwen! Anyhow, Aron had dropped out of school but returned as the Marriott catering manager on campus. He and I came to know each other through work, as I was a food service wage slave all four years of college. During the summer of 1999, when I was working as a research assistant for one of the history professors, he was managing the small coffee shop in the basement of one of the academic buildings. We chatted a bit informally there and got to know each other a little better. Even if Aron had had not been in the catering industry, his sexual orientation would not be hard to miss, but I, nervous and over cautious, did not confess my own commonality in that regard until I saw him reading Andrew Sullivan's Virtually Normal one day. Aron thereafter became my first gay friend and, for better or worse, my gay role model.
We worked together the following two years and enjoyed many evening either unwinding over Dewar's in his apartment or going to out to the local bars and clubs. He was the one who introduced me to Trexx, Syracuse's version of a gay disco. He seemed, to my eyes at the time, terribly sophisticated and urbane. I envied him tremendously. We had a falling out over something incredibly stupid that I don't remember any more, but luckily managed to patch things up before the end of my senior year. He and I never had sex, and I really regret that actually because I think he was absolutely adorable. We were friends and nothing more, and that was fine by me.
One of the many intersting and unique aspects of Aron's personality was that he would read fortunes using playing cards. He told me, sometime in the winter of 1999-2000 that I would meet an older man and begin a long-term relationship with him, that my father would like him but my mother would be opposed because she would know what was really going on. Of course, that it exactly what happened: on February 19, 2000, I met S.
Aron and I stayed in touch intermittantly by phone and email my first year in New York, although it was I who had to initiate communication. He taught a training workshop for cruise ship caterers at the SUNY Maritime college in the summer of 2001 and we met for drinks at the Duplex one afternoon. That was the last I saw of him. I was hoping to get away for to spend a weekend with him in Rochester, where he was living at the time, but we could never get our calendars in alignment. He was in charge of catering at Nazareth College in Rochester and then moved on toe Monroe County Community College.
The last I heard from him was in 2003 when, having been out of contact for I while, I learned that his brother had committed suicide. I never received a reply to my condolences.
When my father died in 2006, I helped my mother clean out our old apartment. It was there that I found the plastic Russian chessmen he had given me, which he had bought during a high school trip to St. Petersburg (or was it Leningrad then?). I wanted to reach out to him again and through the power of the Internet I was able to find out that he was back home in his upstate town living with his mother. I called and left a message with his mother that I was looking to get back in touch with him, but he never returned my call.
Wherever he is, I hope he's well.
To be continued...
Aron McLaughlin
Aron and I first met through Gwen, my "girlfriend" in my freshman year of college. Aron had been a classmate and friend of hers who was her date to the Snow Ball, the campus winter formal, in her freshman year. I was her date in her sophomore year. Poor Gwen! Anyhow, Aron had dropped out of school but returned as the Marriott catering manager on campus. He and I came to know each other through work, as I was a food service wage slave all four years of college. During the summer of 1999, when I was working as a research assistant for one of the history professors, he was managing the small coffee shop in the basement of one of the academic buildings. We chatted a bit informally there and got to know each other a little better. Even if Aron had had not been in the catering industry, his sexual orientation would not be hard to miss, but I, nervous and over cautious, did not confess my own commonality in that regard until I saw him reading Andrew Sullivan's Virtually Normal one day. Aron thereafter became my first gay friend and, for better or worse, my gay role model.
We worked together the following two years and enjoyed many evening either unwinding over Dewar's in his apartment or going to out to the local bars and clubs. He was the one who introduced me to Trexx, Syracuse's version of a gay disco. He seemed, to my eyes at the time, terribly sophisticated and urbane. I envied him tremendously. We had a falling out over something incredibly stupid that I don't remember any more, but luckily managed to patch things up before the end of my senior year. He and I never had sex, and I really regret that actually because I think he was absolutely adorable. We were friends and nothing more, and that was fine by me.
One of the many intersting and unique aspects of Aron's personality was that he would read fortunes using playing cards. He told me, sometime in the winter of 1999-2000 that I would meet an older man and begin a long-term relationship with him, that my father would like him but my mother would be opposed because she would know what was really going on. Of course, that it exactly what happened: on February 19, 2000, I met S.
Aron and I stayed in touch intermittantly by phone and email my first year in New York, although it was I who had to initiate communication. He taught a training workshop for cruise ship caterers at the SUNY Maritime college in the summer of 2001 and we met for drinks at the Duplex one afternoon. That was the last I saw of him. I was hoping to get away for to spend a weekend with him in Rochester, where he was living at the time, but we could never get our calendars in alignment. He was in charge of catering at Nazareth College in Rochester and then moved on toe Monroe County Community College.
The last I heard from him was in 2003 when, having been out of contact for I while, I learned that his brother had committed suicide. I never received a reply to my condolences.
When my father died in 2006, I helped my mother clean out our old apartment. It was there that I found the plastic Russian chessmen he had given me, which he had bought during a high school trip to St. Petersburg (or was it Leningrad then?). I wanted to reach out to him again and through the power of the Internet I was able to find out that he was back home in his upstate town living with his mother. I called and left a message with his mother that I was looking to get back in touch with him, but he never returned my call.
Wherever he is, I hope he's well.
To be continued...
Ten years
Tin Man noted that Friday, July 18, was the tenth anniversary of his coming out. He was able to confirm the date because of old journals he had kept from that time. Unfortunately, I have no such documentation to rely on but I was suddenly reminded that now, the summer of 2008, is my tenth anniversary, too.
1998 seems so long ago. It seems like an Arcadian idyll compared to all that has come afterward. 9/11 and Iraq were completely off the horizon and even the Clinton impeachment debacle had yet to boil over. I had just finished my freshman year at Le Moyne College, my first year living by myself away from home (granted, home and the overbearing presence of my parents was only a 20 minute drive away, but still). I had had a girlfriend, Gwen, with him I went out on a few awkward dates over about a two-week period at the end of the fall semester. The less said about that, the better. I had also had a "girlfriend" in high school, but alarm bells should have rung when the basis of our relationship was dishing about our European History teacher, Mr. Ringwood. It was my infatuation with him, after all, that has led me to apply to his alma mater and declare his major with a concentration in education so I could follow in his footsteps (Yes, it's sickening. It gets worse, but I'll spare you).
Over the course of my freshman year, I had trasnferred my affections to Fr. Scully, the handsome Jesuit who taught Tudor and Stuart British history. It was a rainy night in May, a Tuesday I believe, that a conversation in which he revealed his own sexual orientation led me to tentatively confess that I might possibly be bisexual. I remember that he smirked and said a lot of guys start off there before deciding they're actually gay. He was right.
In June of that year, our college chorus did a concert tour of Ireland. I was still struggling to find my identity at that time, and there are a lot of embarrassing details of that trip that I shall choose to continue to repress. Nevertheless, being out of the country afforded me a great deal of time for introspection. When I got back to the states, I had lunch with Fr. Scully at a restaurant near campus (I had gotten an office job there for the summer) and came all the way out of the closet.
I'm smiling now remembering that time, because there was so much shit looming ahread that in perfect 20/20 hindsight I know I could have prevented. I sure went out of my way to make things difficult for myself, but I blame it on innocence, ignorance, and a hearty serving of naivete. I had no idea what the future would bring, but I think I assumed I'd be a high school history teacher somewhere in the greater Syracuse area with my own apartment. I don't think I saw a partner in my future, but I would have liked a boyfriend. My weekends would have been spent drinking in the Irish pub downtown mooning over the cute bartenders, or in what passed for the gay bar scene. I don't think there's any way I or anyone else would have conceived that 10 years down the road I'd be a Jew, owning a house in Westchester with my ex-partner of seven years and two beagles, working for a Jewish philanthropist in Manhattan.
If I had come out earlier or later, the entire chain of events would have been thrown off and none of this would have happened. I can hardly say that my life has been all sunshine and lollipops, but I love my friends and my dogs and I'm content with my job and my spiritual life is fulfilling. These good things I have are far more precious than any might-have-beens.
1998 seems so long ago. It seems like an Arcadian idyll compared to all that has come afterward. 9/11 and Iraq were completely off the horizon and even the Clinton impeachment debacle had yet to boil over. I had just finished my freshman year at Le Moyne College, my first year living by myself away from home (granted, home and the overbearing presence of my parents was only a 20 minute drive away, but still). I had had a girlfriend, Gwen, with him I went out on a few awkward dates over about a two-week period at the end of the fall semester. The less said about that, the better. I had also had a "girlfriend" in high school, but alarm bells should have rung when the basis of our relationship was dishing about our European History teacher, Mr. Ringwood. It was my infatuation with him, after all, that has led me to apply to his alma mater and declare his major with a concentration in education so I could follow in his footsteps (Yes, it's sickening. It gets worse, but I'll spare you).
Over the course of my freshman year, I had trasnferred my affections to Fr. Scully, the handsome Jesuit who taught Tudor and Stuart British history. It was a rainy night in May, a Tuesday I believe, that a conversation in which he revealed his own sexual orientation led me to tentatively confess that I might possibly be bisexual. I remember that he smirked and said a lot of guys start off there before deciding they're actually gay. He was right.
In June of that year, our college chorus did a concert tour of Ireland. I was still struggling to find my identity at that time, and there are a lot of embarrassing details of that trip that I shall choose to continue to repress. Nevertheless, being out of the country afforded me a great deal of time for introspection. When I got back to the states, I had lunch with Fr. Scully at a restaurant near campus (I had gotten an office job there for the summer) and came all the way out of the closet.
I'm smiling now remembering that time, because there was so much shit looming ahread that in perfect 20/20 hindsight I know I could have prevented. I sure went out of my way to make things difficult for myself, but I blame it on innocence, ignorance, and a hearty serving of naivete. I had no idea what the future would bring, but I think I assumed I'd be a high school history teacher somewhere in the greater Syracuse area with my own apartment. I don't think I saw a partner in my future, but I would have liked a boyfriend. My weekends would have been spent drinking in the Irish pub downtown mooning over the cute bartenders, or in what passed for the gay bar scene. I don't think there's any way I or anyone else would have conceived that 10 years down the road I'd be a Jew, owning a house in Westchester with my ex-partner of seven years and two beagles, working for a Jewish philanthropist in Manhattan.
If I had come out earlier or later, the entire chain of events would have been thrown off and none of this would have happened. I can hardly say that my life has been all sunshine and lollipops, but I love my friends and my dogs and I'm content with my job and my spiritual life is fulfilling. These good things I have are far more precious than any might-have-beens.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Friday, July 18, 2008
The East Is Red
It was difficult and there were not a few casualties, but I have defeated demons of codependency. I'm off to China in October!
Thursday, July 17, 2008
China
My mother is going to China this fall. Her town's chamber of commerce is organizing a trip that one would have thought was intended only for business people but is apparently open to everyone, even 70-year-old widows.
She wasn't sure whether or not she should do it. It's about $1700 for a 7-day trip that includes airfare, hotels, and food. They would tour Beijing, Shanghai, and visit the Great Wall. I couldn't fathom the indecidion: it sounds like a fantastic opportunity! She should seize it while she can.
It turns out I'm much better at giving advice to others than I am at taking it myself. My mother has decided to take the trip, and she would like to know if I wanted to come along with her -- it would be her treat.
When would I have such an opportunity again to travel someplace so exotic? When again would I have the opportunity for such "quality time" with my mom? On top of all that, it wouldn't cost me a cent.
The only thing holding me back is S.
It's stupid, I know. It should make any difference to me at this point, but part of me still feels like I don't deserve to go off and do something so extravagant on my own without including him, that it would be selfish. He's talked several times about wanting to go to China, saying it was something he always wanted to do. Not only would I be imposing on him to take care of the dogs every day that I would be gone, but I would be going off and doing by myself something he has dreamed about. Would that be fair? Could I justiably take my mother up on this offer without being a total dick?
Grrr. Why am I still trapped like this? Why can I not break free of this net of codependency? Why am I still bound by the ruins of dead relationship? Perhaps this is an excellent topic for the counselor next week.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Israel
Some have pointed out that the embarrassing, disappointing, and indeed disgusting "prisoner exchange" highlights Israel's moral high ground.
It shows Israel's care and concern for its people and its soldiers, going to such lengths to free -- or at least recover the bodies -- of Ehud Goldwasser and Eldad Regev.
It shows the vast gulf between Israel's treatment of its prisoners and the terrorists'. Samir Kurtan spent nearly 30 years in prison for murdering a man in front of his 4 year-old daughter and then killing the girl with the butt of his rifle. He emerged from prison positively rotund, demonstrating how well he had been fed. He was even able to earn a BA through Israel's Open University. Goldwasser and Regev, military reservists who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, died in captivity without ever receiving visits from the Red Cross. The last communications regarding Gilad Shalit suggested he was gravely ill and had lost a great deal of weight.
That Hezbollah is welcoming a child killer like Kurtan back as a hero shows where their true values lay. Israel's concern for its fallen soldiers demonstrates their capacity.
All that is well and good. I believe that Israel, as the political expression of the Jewish people, has an obligation to express, at least in a secular way, the ethical ideals that are the constitution and raison d'etre of the Jewish people. Perversely, Israel's critics hold her up to a standard to which no other nation is held accountable. China's gross human rights record goes largely unchallenged and the misogyny and religious intolerance inherent in the societies of most Muslim nations is glossed over by the liberal elite -- but let one Palestinian citizen be accidentally caught in the crossfire and the wolves are ready to pounce on the Jewish state! Suicide bombers that kill innocent civilians in shopping malls and pizzerias -- and child killers like Kurtan -- are whitewashed as "militants" while the IDF is denounced as a terrorist militia and Israel a racist, rogue, "apartheid" state.
I have heard Yitz Greenberg say that if Israel were to behave 50% better than the other nations of the world, it will be destroyed. If it is 25% better it will bring the Messiah. If it is 10% better it will still be a light unto the nations. I think the problem is that Israel doesn't seem to be able to decide at what level its going to operate. Showing no quarter to terrorists would not be immoral: it would be standing up for justice. But at heart, Israel is a humanitarian nation that wants to do the right thing. The problem is that in this world of ours, which the Kabbalists call "the world of lies," its never easy to determine what the "right thing" actually is. If one is to survive, one needs to compromise with reality.
A certain lying buffoon of a President once asserted that one does not negotiate with terrorists. He was was wrong in many things, but that statement at least is true. "Redeeming the captive" is a mitzvah, but the rabbis realized how the Jewish eagerness to do anything necessary to retrieve their imprisoned brothers and sisters left them vulnerable to exploitation and limited the application of this rule. Now, it is clear to the terrorists that kidnapping Jews is once again a easy ploy to get what they want. If they will not adopt the "take no prisoners" policy that I think is their sovereign right, then at the very least Israel must never again engage in a single additional exchange of prisoners.
It shows Israel's care and concern for its people and its soldiers, going to such lengths to free -- or at least recover the bodies -- of Ehud Goldwasser and Eldad Regev.
It shows the vast gulf between Israel's treatment of its prisoners and the terrorists'. Samir Kurtan spent nearly 30 years in prison for murdering a man in front of his 4 year-old daughter and then killing the girl with the butt of his rifle. He emerged from prison positively rotund, demonstrating how well he had been fed. He was even able to earn a BA through Israel's Open University. Goldwasser and Regev, military reservists who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, died in captivity without ever receiving visits from the Red Cross. The last communications regarding Gilad Shalit suggested he was gravely ill and had lost a great deal of weight.
That Hezbollah is welcoming a child killer like Kurtan back as a hero shows where their true values lay. Israel's concern for its fallen soldiers demonstrates their capacity.
All that is well and good. I believe that Israel, as the political expression of the Jewish people, has an obligation to express, at least in a secular way, the ethical ideals that are the constitution and raison d'etre of the Jewish people. Perversely, Israel's critics hold her up to a standard to which no other nation is held accountable. China's gross human rights record goes largely unchallenged and the misogyny and religious intolerance inherent in the societies of most Muslim nations is glossed over by the liberal elite -- but let one Palestinian citizen be accidentally caught in the crossfire and the wolves are ready to pounce on the Jewish state! Suicide bombers that kill innocent civilians in shopping malls and pizzerias -- and child killers like Kurtan -- are whitewashed as "militants" while the IDF is denounced as a terrorist militia and Israel a racist, rogue, "apartheid" state.
I have heard Yitz Greenberg say that if Israel were to behave 50% better than the other nations of the world, it will be destroyed. If it is 25% better it will bring the Messiah. If it is 10% better it will still be a light unto the nations. I think the problem is that Israel doesn't seem to be able to decide at what level its going to operate. Showing no quarter to terrorists would not be immoral: it would be standing up for justice. But at heart, Israel is a humanitarian nation that wants to do the right thing. The problem is that in this world of ours, which the Kabbalists call "the world of lies," its never easy to determine what the "right thing" actually is. If one is to survive, one needs to compromise with reality.
A certain lying buffoon of a President once asserted that one does not negotiate with terrorists. He was was wrong in many things, but that statement at least is true. "Redeeming the captive" is a mitzvah, but the rabbis realized how the Jewish eagerness to do anything necessary to retrieve their imprisoned brothers and sisters left them vulnerable to exploitation and limited the application of this rule. Now, it is clear to the terrorists that kidnapping Jews is once again a easy ploy to get what they want. If they will not adopt the "take no prisoners" policy that I think is their sovereign right, then at the very least Israel must never again engage in a single additional exchange of prisoners.
Trigger and release
Why did I have such an emotional reaction to the deaths of two soldiers I never met from a country I've never visited? I think that it was really just a great deal of emotional pressure finally popping loose.
For months, I've felt like I've been lolling about in a gray emotional wasteland, devoid of energy and joy. I've felt anger and annoyance, but not really joy or sadness. Whether it's been the depression or the antidepressants or something else altogether, I don't know. But it certainly hasn't been fun.
I just finished reading the last volume of Brian K. Vaughan's Y: The Last Man. I'll not give out any spoilers, because I think was an excellent graphic novel and I would encourage anyone to go out and read it. It's pretty violent, and aside from the instantaneous death of every male mammal save the hero Yorick and his capuchin monkey Ampersand, there is plenty of killing in the ten volumes. Nevertheless, it was two bits about the monkey that got to me. On one page, perhaps in volume 6, the monkey is injected with a sedative prior to being shipped overseas. The monkey is terrified and shrieks as he is injected, and then goes limp before curling up in his little travel case (which looks like the pet carrier I buried my cat Jack in). "Sleep is one-sixtieth part of death," so say the rabbis, and I thought the monkey looked dead and it made me sad. At the end of the series, in the epilogue that shows the futures of the characters, the monkey, old and infirmed, is fed a grape which apparently contains a drug to euthanize him. He dies in Yorick's arms at the grave of a friend of theirs.
Of course, I thought immediately of the day when I will probably have to make the decision to euthanize my beagles, Barney and Jed, and I just started crying. It lasted a good 15 minutes, during which I felt compelled to grab hold of Barney and repeatedly tell him how good a boy he is and how much I love him (he must have thought I went insane). It felt good, though: it felt like a great deal of pressure had been released.
As I was crying over the comic book monkey and the future deaths of my dogs, I was reminded how the last time I cried like this was maybe four months ago or more when I watched the fifth season episode "The Body" of Buffy the Vampire Slayer in which Joyce Summers dies. From there, my mind took me to the episode of Smallville that features Jonathan Kent's funeral. Inevitably, this brought me back to the death of my father in 2006. At least Buffy's mom and Clark Kent's dad died naturally; like Ampersand the monkey and (I fear someday) like my dogs, my mom and I had to make the decision to end the extraordinary measures needed to keep my dad alive. He died right in front of me, as the consequence of a decision I made. It was the right decision, but I still feel awful.
Why is it that pointless things like comic books and TV can release my emotions and touch my heart when real life leaves me numb? I'd say something about the power of art, but this that seems a bit overblown given the media involved. Still, I feel better now than I have in a long time. I feel.
For months, I've felt like I've been lolling about in a gray emotional wasteland, devoid of energy and joy. I've felt anger and annoyance, but not really joy or sadness. Whether it's been the depression or the antidepressants or something else altogether, I don't know. But it certainly hasn't been fun.
I just finished reading the last volume of Brian K. Vaughan's Y: The Last Man. I'll not give out any spoilers, because I think was an excellent graphic novel and I would encourage anyone to go out and read it. It's pretty violent, and aside from the instantaneous death of every male mammal save the hero Yorick and his capuchin monkey Ampersand, there is plenty of killing in the ten volumes. Nevertheless, it was two bits about the monkey that got to me. On one page, perhaps in volume 6, the monkey is injected with a sedative prior to being shipped overseas. The monkey is terrified and shrieks as he is injected, and then goes limp before curling up in his little travel case (which looks like the pet carrier I buried my cat Jack in). "Sleep is one-sixtieth part of death," so say the rabbis, and I thought the monkey looked dead and it made me sad. At the end of the series, in the epilogue that shows the futures of the characters, the monkey, old and infirmed, is fed a grape which apparently contains a drug to euthanize him. He dies in Yorick's arms at the grave of a friend of theirs.
Of course, I thought immediately of the day when I will probably have to make the decision to euthanize my beagles, Barney and Jed, and I just started crying. It lasted a good 15 minutes, during which I felt compelled to grab hold of Barney and repeatedly tell him how good a boy he is and how much I love him (he must have thought I went insane). It felt good, though: it felt like a great deal of pressure had been released.
As I was crying over the comic book monkey and the future deaths of my dogs, I was reminded how the last time I cried like this was maybe four months ago or more when I watched the fifth season episode "The Body" of Buffy the Vampire Slayer in which Joyce Summers dies. From there, my mind took me to the episode of Smallville that features Jonathan Kent's funeral. Inevitably, this brought me back to the death of my father in 2006. At least Buffy's mom and Clark Kent's dad died naturally; like Ampersand the monkey and (I fear someday) like my dogs, my mom and I had to make the decision to end the extraordinary measures needed to keep my dad alive. He died right in front of me, as the consequence of a decision I made. It was the right decision, but I still feel awful.
Why is it that pointless things like comic books and TV can release my emotions and touch my heart when real life leaves me numb? I'd say something about the power of art, but this that seems a bit overblown given the media involved. Still, I feel better now than I have in a long time. I feel.
Change of mood
I've calmed down just a wee bit from my earlier ranting. I don't disavow my comments, but I'm not quite ready to address the issue more calmly.
The following is a hilarious political musical cartoon (which for some bizarre reason I am incapable of embedding here). Enjoy.
[url="http://www.jibjab.com/originals/time_for_some_campaignin"]Time For Some Campaignin'[/url]
[i]hosted by JibJab.com[/i]
The following is a hilarious political musical cartoon (which for some bizarre reason I am incapable of embedding here). Enjoy.
[url="http://www.jibjab.com/originals/time_for_some_campaignin"]Time For Some Campaignin'[/url]
[i]hosted by JibJab.com[/i]
Homecoming
Eldad Regev and Ehud Goldwasser, the two Israeli soldiers who kidnap precipitated the 2006 Lebanon war, have finally come home.
Unfortunately, they're also dead.
In exchange for the return of their bodies, Israel is going to hand over the corpses of 12 terrorists and is supposed to release 5 live ones. Hezbollah and its supporters are set to welcome these murderous swine back home with flags and fireworks. It's truly disgusting.
Every Shabbat for the past 2 years, the rabbi has lead a recitation of Psalm 121:
A song for ascents:
I turn my eyes to the mountains; from where will my help come?
My help comes from the LORD, maker of heaven and earth.
He will not let your foot give way; your guardian will not slumber;
See, the guardian of Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps!
The LORD is your guardian, the LORD is your protection at your right hand.
By day the sun will not strike you, nor the moon by night.
The LORD will guard you from all harm; He will guard your life.
The LORD will guard you going and coming now and forever.
Forgive the blasphemy, but I call bullshit.
I'm not surprised, of course. Hezbollah are subhuman animals, terrorist scum who can't be trusted. They are merely vermin that must be exterminated. More to the point, I never expected any God to intervene and save these men. God didn't stop the Holocaust or prevent 9/11, so why should we have expected anything different in this case?
We shouldn't. Prayers are worthless. Only human action acccomplishes anything in this world, and I think Israel must act by instituting a "take no prisoners" policy. After all, the only good terrorist is a dead terrorist. Rather than releasing murderers and sending them back home to kill again, Israel should -- humanely -- euthanize them like the rabid dogs they are.
Yes, there is the unpleasant military side effect that the terrorists will be even less likely to keep their prisoners alive than they are now. Gilad Shalit would have been killed by his captors (if he hasn't been already) like Regev and Goldwasser, but that I think would actually have been better than years of captivity and God-knows how much abuse. Not to mention the agony of uncertainty faced by their families.
I am not a supporter of capital punishment, but I believe people and nations have the absolute right to use lethal force to defend life. Terrorists, especially when they are welcomed home in triumph, can never be rehabilitated. They remain forever a threat to life as long as they draw breath. Executing the terrorists who don't end up blowing themselves up would not be revenge or capital punishment but killing in self-defense.
I am just so full of rage right now I can barely think.
Unfortunately, they're also dead.
In exchange for the return of their bodies, Israel is going to hand over the corpses of 12 terrorists and is supposed to release 5 live ones. Hezbollah and its supporters are set to welcome these murderous swine back home with flags and fireworks. It's truly disgusting.
Every Shabbat for the past 2 years, the rabbi has lead a recitation of Psalm 121:
A song for ascents:
I turn my eyes to the mountains; from where will my help come?
My help comes from the LORD, maker of heaven and earth.
He will not let your foot give way; your guardian will not slumber;
See, the guardian of Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps!
The LORD is your guardian, the LORD is your protection at your right hand.
By day the sun will not strike you, nor the moon by night.
The LORD will guard you from all harm; He will guard your life.
The LORD will guard you going and coming now and forever.
Forgive the blasphemy, but I call bullshit.
I'm not surprised, of course. Hezbollah are subhuman animals, terrorist scum who can't be trusted. They are merely vermin that must be exterminated. More to the point, I never expected any God to intervene and save these men. God didn't stop the Holocaust or prevent 9/11, so why should we have expected anything different in this case?
We shouldn't. Prayers are worthless. Only human action acccomplishes anything in this world, and I think Israel must act by instituting a "take no prisoners" policy. After all, the only good terrorist is a dead terrorist. Rather than releasing murderers and sending them back home to kill again, Israel should -- humanely -- euthanize them like the rabid dogs they are.
Yes, there is the unpleasant military side effect that the terrorists will be even less likely to keep their prisoners alive than they are now. Gilad Shalit would have been killed by his captors (if he hasn't been already) like Regev and Goldwasser, but that I think would actually have been better than years of captivity and God-knows how much abuse. Not to mention the agony of uncertainty faced by their families.
I am not a supporter of capital punishment, but I believe people and nations have the absolute right to use lethal force to defend life. Terrorists, especially when they are welcomed home in triumph, can never be rehabilitated. They remain forever a threat to life as long as they draw breath. Executing the terrorists who don't end up blowing themselves up would not be revenge or capital punishment but killing in self-defense.
I am just so full of rage right now I can barely think.
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