Willful Blindness

While browsing the dreary dispatches in the Jerusalem Post just now, I found this article about the Israel Defense Forces’ continued updating of their maps of Gaza. They are adding buildings and sites to a list of places off-limits to air and ground operations, a list which included over 1500 locations at the start of operation Cast Lead almost a year ago. In short, the IDF’s Gaza Coordination and Liaison Administration is making efforts to protect innocent lives.

“Despite this work,” the article states, “. . . Israel has been accused of intentionally targeting civilian infrastructure, including hospitals and UN compounds.”

I have neither the time nor the inclination at the moment to start proving that Israel takes great pains to protect civilians, and that Hamas puts them in harm’s way in order to make Israel look bad. Anyone who’s read anything anywhere about this conflict knows the facts, and anyone else can find them in newspapers all over the internet, on YouTube, in all sorts of places.

I just wanted to lament that outside observers continue to malign Israel in this regard,  in spite of abundant documentary evidence that the situation is the other way around. The Islamic terrorists are damn good propagandists. I’ve always thought Israel needs to do more in the PR department to keep the West and others from being taken for a ride.

Why ignore the abundant documentary evidence that Israel bends over backwards to protect civilians? Because you’re looking at the situation with your conclusions already drawn, and the truth is inconvenient sometimes.

There are other groups of people with certain established beliefs that they manage to cling to in the face of screaming contradiction. Like the Holocaust deniers. Ignore what’s staring you in the face in the name of your cherished hatred and perversion.

“Despite this work . . . Israel has been accused of intentionally targeting civilian infrastructure, including hospitals and UN compounds.”

My point is this: Read. Learn. Know what’s what.

And if you don’t want to, or don’t have time to — just keep quiet.

The Blind Leading Themselves

I’m hoping to do some reporting on my America trip in the near future, perhaps before I fly back to Israel, but in the meantime, I offer this:

So, I’m in DC on Friday, going to visit my brother and his girlfriend (and more importantly, their new puppy). Their building is at the intersection of 16th and Columbia, a few blocks from the Columbia Heights metro station. N—–, my brother, had told me there would be a security guard inside who would open the door for me, but there was no one in sight when I arrived other than a blind man with a walking stick using the call box to call up to whoever he knew and be buzzed in. I followed after him.

He tapped his way towards the elevators, slower than someone who was not blind would have done, naturally. “Do you need help?” I asked him. My tone was polite but neutral, in no way condescending, and in no way deserving of his answer: “I’m blind, not a ‘tard”. Then after a pause: “Help with what?”

I’m thinking to myself Well, how ’bout you’re fucking blind, that reason enough? but instead I tell him “I just thought I’d ask”. I called the elevator. The rightmost of three opened up, and he made his way straight for it, working with his extra-honed sense of hearing, I suppose. “After you,” I said, though I thought it would have been amusing to bump into him and yell Hey, watch where you’re going! After all, he’s not a ‘tard. He’s just as capable of doing anything as I am. Why should I yield to him, why should I not expect him to yield to me?

As I got off the elevator, I spoke the work “jackass” at a volume which I believe was loud enough to be heard. Afterwards, I wished I had said “asshole,” but you can’t win ‘em all.

Alright, so let’s discuss: Does a Good Samaritan offer help to a blind person or not? Does the offer imply that I believe he requires my help? Can he have replied with the same politeness, “Thank you, but I can manage on my own?” My mother, who I consulted on the matter,thinks this guy may have simply been a jerk. Surely he was that, but I think it’s something more. I think this man and many like him are wound up and hypersensitized by our ultra-PC culture, a culture that deludes disabled people into believing that they can do everything everyone else can, that they’re just like anyone else.

For the love of God, man, you do not have the use of your eyes. “I’m not a ‘tard,” you say — exactly! A retard would see the fucking elevator and make for it much faster than you ever will, you miserable prick.

Aside from the jerk hypothesis, and the poisonous PC influence, it’s also quite possible that the man is very dissatisfied with his permanent physical disability which prevents him from doing many things that most people can do, and has become embittered; and with bitterness often comes hostility, even towards people who mean well. In this case, he is to be pitied as well as despised.

Well, I resisted the temptation to go all Larry David on him, but I fumed about it for awhile afterwards. When I got upstairs I told N—– and his girlfriend about it. N—– immediately said “No!”, indicating one never offers help to blind people. I argued, and told him about a time I offered help to a blind girl on the street in Jerusalem, and R—-, his girlfriend, nodded agreement (she’s very quiet).

So I ask you — do we stop offering old ladies laden with groceries help crossing the street because in our day and age many old ladies are still quite active and ambulatory? How about Helen Keller? Better just to leave her alone, wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings.

The very next day, yesterday, I was walking home from the Wheaton metro when I was accosted by a young man gesticulating wildly and grunting like someone who actually is mentally disabled. But when he tapped his mouth and cupped his ears, I understood. What a coincidence! God was telling me that I had been right.

The young deaf-mute made a sign with his hands, assuming, perhaps, that I understood his special language. He held out the index and middle fingers of one hand, together, and gave a couple quick strokes from the palm towards the fingers’ ends with his other index finger. Or something like that. I both said and indicated bodily that I did not understand. Now, fortunately it snowed yesterday, and the guy bent over and wrote in the snow “mta”. I still wasn’t sure what he wanted. I suppose he meant Maryland Transit Authority, but they don’t operate buses in Montgomery County, as far as I know. After I gave another apologetic shrug, he leaned over again and wrote “train”. Ah. I indicated that he should go straight and then make a right, while saying “that way and that way” as if that would make a difference. He walked off, grunting more. He sounded frustrated, as if I should have understood him sooner, but likely he’s hardly aware of the sounds he makes, and their tones.

I felt vindicated.

America, Past and Present: Part I

I finished the post below in Ben Gurion Airport in Israel in the very early hours of the morning of November 19th, last Thursday. I hope my evident proclivity for procrastination will not too much delay future posts while on this trip.

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A couple months after moving to Israel, I realized that I am, have always been, and will always be, above all, an American. Since then, even as I have struggled to express myself in Hebrew; as I have felt my face burn when Israelis switch to mangled English after I stumble on one word; as I have tried at once to fit in and to stand out in a society I both love and loathe; I have become more and more a proud American. I’m not talking about political pride, Bush pride, hate France pride, bomb Iraq pride, tattooed red-white-and-blue eagle pride — and most certainly not “Proud to Be an American” pride. (I’m not terribly interested in politics, don’t like Bush without being able to rationally explain why, generally don’t like French people for no good reason, don’t know enough about Iraq to have an opinion, am considering a less cliché America-related tattoo — and as for the song: yes, I love sappy sentiment, and yes, I’m grateful for military actions that protected my country and to the soldiers who were involved in them, but that song sucks. Sorry, flag-bandanna’ed, shotgun totin’ stereotypes. When it comes to patriotic American songs, I prefer Woody Guthrie’s “This Land is Your Land,” commie lyrics and all, especially the version with the lesser-known “private property” verse.)

I’m talking about the landscapes, roads, and towns; the winding mountain lanes, wooded streams, and quiet country houses; the bustling cities and the boarded-up backwaters; the people, from Abraham Lincoln to Charles Manson; everything.

So, I’m dying to finally be back home Thursday for a visit. It’s been more than 16 months since I left the U.S. on July 9, 2008. On account of my low (or rather, “nonexistent”) budget, I’ll probably be in Maryland and DC most of the time, and most of my “tourism” will be done within walking distance of a Metro station. (Ah, how I miss the Metro! — in spite of its horrific track record — pun intended — of late, with the crashing and the dying and the running people over.) That’s alright. I’m ashamed to say how many museums and monuments I never saw in the 22 years I lived just outside DC. As the time before the move dwindled away, I started to realize how I’d been taking it for granted. I used to go to the National Gallery a lot, but aside from that, I haven’t been to any of the museums in years.

I remember my last visit in DC, on the 3rd of July 2008, 6 days before I got on the plane. I walked to the Wheaton metro station, passing along the wooded bike path and familiar side streets, knowing I wouldn’t see them again for awhile. I came out onto University Boulevard. Probably I considered stopping in at the KFC-Taco Bell, but I kept going. I had another place in mind.

On the train, I shot a video clip with my little digital camera, capturing the graffiti as I glided between Takoma and Fort Totten. Then I sat back and waited a few minutes until the train slid back underground and pulled up to Union Station.

Over the previous few years, when I felt blue or bored, I would take little trips like this one into DC. Union Station was usually my first stop. I’d push through the crowd, wait in line to swipe my card at the turnstile, and start for the food court, always passing a beggar or two and sometimes giving out a dollar. I’d automatically take a look into the small photo and frame store where I’d once bought a few frames. I’d turn the corner and head to the mens room, which was invariably squalid and stinking in spite of the progressing renovation in the food court. Then I’d go to the Chevy Chase Bank ATM and take out a 20. The first time I practiced this routine, I had tried to pay for my food with my bank card, but it wasn’t accepted in the places I wanted to eat.

After ordering up a styrofoam platter of grease in one form or another, I’d find a table and dig in. Sometimes I’d try to read a book, but I always ended up sitting and people-watching until I’d finished eating. I’d try to listen in on conversations and figure out where the tourists were from, and I’d wish I could talk to them and ask them about life in Alabama or Oregon, and what they thought of DC so far. I’d stare at young couples and try to guess if they were locals, tourists, or passing through on an Amtrak train. After awhile they’d stare back at me, less with a look of mutual interest than of suspicion. I’d smile and watch children running between the tables and chairs, hollering and doing whatever pleased them. Occasionally I’d see a group of suits and wonder why they would choose the Union Station food court for their lunch hour. We’re not far from Capitol Hill — could they be lobbyists or aides or staffers or even congressmen? I remember one of them vividly. He was a neat-looking little man, 40s, balding, and (I imagined) manicured. He had purchased a hotdog larger than his forearm, and as he opened his mouth to take the first bite, his small face contorted into a kind of horrific mask, eyes bulging, jaw stretching unnaturally. After the initial disgust, I felt a sort of strange pleasure; a feeling that I had borne witness to a horrific act this prim and proper man had not wanted me to see.

Sometimes after eating I’d walk around upstairs for a bit, go into some shops, a bookstore, stroll past the passages leading to the train platforms. I’d read the schedules up on the screens and fantasize about getting on the next train to Chicago. I had the money — I could probably call in sick at work . . .

One way or another, I’d end up going out the front doors through the massive main hall, past the Christopher Columbus statue at the foot of which at least one beggar was always sleeping or panhandling, cross Massachusetts Avenue and wend my way through the little squares of park between the station and the Capitol, and then cut to the National Gallery.

I started late in the day on my last trip in July ’08, and the museums were getting ready to close by the time I finished my lunch. I approached the Capitol and circled around it, taking a few pictures. After some Capitol cops yelled at me for getting too close to the building (I wasn’t near any kind of public entrance), I continued on my way.

I strolled down the Mall, past the museums. I looked over at the Smithsonian Castle as I passed. I watched the people descending and rising in and out of Smithsonian station. I walked all the way down the Mall and across the Potomac towards Arlington National Cemetery. I stopped for a few moments to contemplate the Washington Monument, and witnessed a perfectly American tableau laid out before me: a group of boys playing baseball on the lawn. I nearly wept. I sauntered through the grand new WWII Memorial, then wandered off the beaten path and discovered a small, sad-looking WWI Memorial. Lastly, I paid a visit to Abraham Lincoln, his unnaturally huge stone form looming over me, humbling me, I guess.

As I crossed the river the sun began to set, and the Cemetery closed. I rode the metro back home from Arlington National Cemetery station.

I started writing this post weeks ago, but laziness of mind and body kept it from getting done.  Now I’m sitting in Ben Gurion airport near Tel Aviv, waiting for my 5:30 AM flight to Amsterdam, where, after a four hour layover, I’ll head back home to Maryland.

Home. I call it that instinctively. “This is your home,” —- tells me, referring to our tiny room in downtown Jerusalem.  “I know, I know.”  But as the saying goes, home is where the heart is – where is my heart?

With the use of my mother’s car or, when that’s not possible, Montgomery County public transit – or better yet, my own two feet – I’m planning to visit some sites in Maryland itself. I’m not sure how far afield I’ll be able to go, but I’m hoping to retrace some of my old drives.  Also, I’ve discovered a wealth of historic sites in Montgomery County, thanks in part to the Montgomery County Historical Society, of whose existence I was unaware until I googled montgomery county historical society. (They have an excellent blog featuring pictures and descriptions of relics from their collections.)

My computer battery is going to die – I can’t find a place to plug in – and I’d like this to get posted before I’m back in Maryland. There is no end to the memories I could ramble on about like an old man talking about the good old days, but that’ll have to wait. I’m hoping I’ll have the will and the energy to write about my experiences on this trip, and maybe I’ll integrate some recollections of past excursions, like my trips to the C&O Canal, the last of which was in May ’08, at a point along the canal I’d never been to before, which I think I got to from River Road, Montgomery County’s longest road, if I’m not mistaken, or one of ‘em at least, which starts in DC at Wisconsin Avenue and continues through the suburbs before narrowing and winding out deep into the country, beyond the city, the suburbs, the mansions, and finally turns into a rutted dirt road on which, at points, two cars couldn’t pass, and ends at White’s Ferry, where one can either boomerang around and head towards Rockville, or cross the Potomac into Loudon County, VA . . . . .

Million Dollar Bullshit

Yesterday I watched “Million Dollar Baby”. I often consult imdb.com and Wikipedia after watching movies, to kinda, you know, explore the background of the film, find links to reviews, and check out the filmographies of the actors and director. Wikipedia is especially helpful as a sort of annotated bibliography, leading me to articles like the one I’m going to trash in just a moment. Under the heading “Response”, the Wikipedia entry about MDB discusses the controversy regarding the movie’s ending, and states that disability rights “activists believed that the ending supported the euthanasia of disabled people”.

Supported? People? No. Condoned, maybe — maybe. One person — Maggie, Hilary Swank’s character — yes. But “supported the euthanasia of disabled people”? This sort of willful misinterpretation is both ridiculous and infuriating.

Clint Eastwood came back with this: “I’m just telling a story. I don’t advocate. I’m playing a part. I’ve gone around in movies blowing people away with a .44 magnum. But that doesn’t mean I think that’s a proper thing to do.”

Here’s the bottom line: “Million Dollar Baby” contains no politics and no ideology. When politicians and ideologues and advocates and activists and moralists come along and start criticizing art with political and ideological and moral arguments, they not only endeavor to smear a particular piece; they threaten creative freedom and shake the foundations of art. (One can sympathize with Twain’s jocular warning at the beginning of Huckleberry Finn: “Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.”) Artistic criticism is like surgery; ideology is a dirty scalpel.

Wikipedia directed me to this article from the Weekly Standard, a decidedly conservative magazine. Read it, and note the blurb about the author at the end: “Wesley J. Smith is a senior fellow at the Discovery Institute, an attorney for the International Task Force on Euthanasia and Assisted Suicide, and a special consultant to the Center for Bioethics and Culture.” Check out those organizations — we are not dealing with a disinterested film critic here.

Smith argues that Clint Eastwood should have made a film with a more hopeful and inspirational ending, rather than one with a “dark and ultimately defeatist death message”:

The movie could have ended with Maggie triumphing once again, perhaps having obtained an education and becoming a teacher; or, opening a business managing boxers; or perhaps, receiving a standing ovation as an inspirational speaker.

If you didn’t like the ending, Mr. Smith, then by all means make your own movie. If you’re into the Rainbows and Puppy Dogs school of film making, try Frank Capra or, if you can stand a bit more tension, Preston Sturges. But don’t come to Clint Eastwood for smiles and rays of sunshine. Suppose Sean Penn didn’t kill Tim Robbins at the end of “Mystic River”? What would have been the point of the whole movie? Alright Tim, go on, and let’s just forget this whole silly thing ever happened. No. The same can be said for MDB. The film is not about Maggie, the scrappy girl boxer; it’s about Frankie, the old, hardened, lonely, disappointed trainer. Notice that when we don’t see Swank and Eastwood together, we see him alone more than her — getting shafted by his star fighter, going to church, collecting his returned letters to his daughter in boxes. He is the subject of the story. You say Maggie should have overcome her depression and Frankie should have been more supportive. You prove to us that in real life this would be possible. But in life, as in art, what’s possible doesn’t always occur, for there are infinite permutations of possibility.

All this is besides the point though, because you don’t care about the damn plot. You offer some nice alternatives not because you’d hoped for a better work of art but rather because you don’t like what the movie you’re given could be said to say about disabled people and euthanasia. Which leads me to my next point: The movie does not say those things about disabled people and euthanasia. You write:

Frankie kills Maggie because she doesn’t want to go on living after being catastrophically injured and disabled in a boxing match. It isn’t just the disability that leads to her suicidal desire. In the world of the script, she is plunged headlong from triumph to utter hopelessness. Indeed, the script writers manipulate the audience emotionally into thinking, “Of course she wants to die. Given the same situation, who wouldn’t?”

This is simply not so. We see Frankie who, as I have asserted, is the subject of the story, first refusing Maggie’s request outright and subsequently agonizing over it. We aren’t told directly why he reacts this way. We understand that it has to do partially with his Catholic view on the matter, but mostly it’s because Maggie has become his surrogate daughter, and he can’t bear to lose another daughter, and to be the instrument of her end. Maggie, for her part, has her little speech in which she explains why she doesn’t want to go on living, but it’s not her reasoning that ultimately sways Frankie, it’s the pain behind the reasoning. Frankie talks about her pain with the priest in one of the most affecting scenes in the film. We see the whole struggle through Frankie’s eyes. We see very little through Maggie’s. The script, then, is not manipulating us into siding with Maggie; it is sucking us into Frankie’s painful struggle.

And what if we were given the happy ending you so badly crave, Mr. Smith? We’d smile with tears in our eyes and say Aww how sweet and leave the theater and go home and forget the movie by the time we fell asleep because the ending wouldn’t stick, because contrary to your opinion that your happy ending “would also have been more consistent with the internal strength of Million Dollar Baby‘s characters”, it would actually be inconsistent with Maggie’s stubborn streak and Frankie’s underlying weakness. But I’m getting off-topic again — back to the film itself and away from your agenda.

*Sigh*

Listen: Pursue your goals. Save quadriplegics. Treat depression. Oppose euthanasia for people who want it. Do whatever the hell you want. But do not use your personal convictions to wage war on art. Even if you win a battle or two, in the end, art will always come out on top.

Oddball Advertising in Israel and Abroad

I suppose strange advertising can be found the world over, but I’ve noticed many bizarre, dirty, and comical ads here in Israel, a few of which I present here.

Those who think Israel is an ultra-religious, puritanical country swarming with bearded, black-hatted men and shaiteled, long-skirted women might be surprised by the sexuality and innuendo in many Israeli ads. Others use language that wouldn’t work in the U.S., not blaring from a billboard, at least. And then there’s this:

I know.

Political correctness is also not a concern here, as evidenced by these packages of chocolate cake products:

The same brand’s honey cake displays a dumb-looking white girl, blonde and chestless, her mouth hanging open and a stream of honey dribbling from her finger. But the chocolate cakes are the territory of the buxom negresses.

Further — those famous “Chinese Style Pecans Nuts”:

I didn’t have my camera in the store with me, so I bought it.

This next ad was seen in the southern resort town of Eilat, where I would venture to say the tourists as well as the residents do not need to be reminded to share their backsides with the world:

The picture on the ad, which I sadly do not have a photograph of, shows a young man, back to camera, displaying his tightly-jeaned posterior without a care in the world. His face is turned to us, his expression impish, defiant, perhaps a bit contemptuous.

Also in Eilat, strolling through the mall, I saw this guy (left), whose costume and very presence left me confused (and mildly aroused):

To this day I have not determined what he is selling or representing. But he sure turned a lot of eyes.

But with all these, my personal favorite sexy ad comes from a Brazilian cigarette pack I found on a bus:

That’s hot. “IMPOTENCE,” the heading cries, and below: “The Ministry of Health advises: The use of this product diminishes, complicates, or impedes erections.” Tadinho, he’s looks so forlorn! Onde está o meu hardon? His bafflement is aptly conveyed by his face and the set of his hands. The long-nailed, downturned thumb standing in for his malfunctioning caralho is a touch of genius. I almost wanna start smoking, just so I can say that this inspired me to quit. I love it.

But back to Israel. Another phenomenon I’ve noticed is a slew of unconventional bathroom signs ranging from the professionally inappropriate

to the endearingly crude

If you look close at the standing guy, you’ll notice he has the ereção the limpdicked Brazilian so sadly lacked. How is he managing to make the bowl?

These next few ads relate to household products which some of you may recognize, but which I never saw before I moved from the States to Israel. First we have this laundry detergent:

I don’t know about you all, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable washing my clothes with COLON. Honestly, who’s idea was this? I picked up a bag in the supermarket recently, and found it’s produced by Reckitt Benckiser, a corporate home-product giant based in the UK. It’s the same company that makes Woolite, Lysol, Air Wick, Mucinex, Clearasil, and French’s Foods, all of which I saw in stores, TV commercials, and magazines on a daily basis when I was still in Maryland. How many times have I squirted French’s mustard on my hotdog, or washed the floor with Lysol? I regularly used Clearasil products when I had acne, and took Mucinex when I had a cold (I will never forget their commercials, which were just overly-gross enough to be effective.) But COLON? Why?

This one is a dishwashing liquid I frequently see in kitchens here, and I have to chuckle to myself every time.

Fairy is manufactured by Procter & Gamble, which pretty much owns the world. According to Wikipedia:

As of 2008, Fairy is sold in most parts of Europe, although regional names vary. Fairy liquid is available in a variety of colour and scent combinations. . . . In the UK, Fairy Liquid has become a genericized trademark for washing up liquid.

I don’t think this would fly (ba-dum) in the States.

Lastly, I offer this:

It’s a second-hand shop. The yellow sign in the window reads, “Trumpeldor Second Hand”. The store is located near Joseph Trumpeldor street, named for the Russian Zionist who lost his left arm in the Russo-Japanese War.

There’s an old Israeli joke my father once told me: טרומפלדור היה גיבור, אז לקחו ממנו דוגמא — which can be understood either as “Trumpeldor was a hero, so he was a role model,” or “Trumpeldor was a hero, so a sample was from him”. Eh, it’s funnier in Hebrew.

Stay tuned for an upcoming post on Jerusalem graffiti and vandalism.

No Middle Ground

Yesterday, I read this article on NPR’s website, about a possible “schism” between old-guard atheists, those who are willing to work with religious people on social issues that affect us all, and so called “new atheists,” those who set out merely to mock and ridicule and insult and denigrate and anger. Not for the first time in my life (not for the first time this week), I was shocked and dismayed at the way people and groups that are passionate about something often mutate into self-defeating monsters by regressing back to childhood and trying to change the world with name calling.

Last month, atheists marked Blasphemy Day at gatherings around the world, and celebrated the freedom to denigrate and insult religion.

Some offered to trade pornography for Bibles. Others de-baptized people with hair dryers. And in Washington, D.C., an art exhibit opened that shows, among other paintings, one entitled Divine Wine, where Jesus, on the cross, has blood flowing from his wound into a wine bottle.

Another, Jesus Paints His Nails, shows an effeminate Jesus after the crucifixion, applying polish to the nails that attach his hands to the cross.

Everybody knows we have freedom of expression in the United States and the Western world. נו? What are you trying to prove? Says PZ Myers, a biology professor at the University of Minnesota, Morris: “Edgy is what young people like. . . . They want to cut through the nonsense right away and want to get to the point. They want to hear the story fast, they want it to be exciting, and they want it to be fun. And I’m sorry, the old school of atheism is really, really boring.”

In short, surrender your reason, the strongest (perhaps the only) tool you’ve got, in favor of whoring yourselves to college kids, among whom atheism is as much a fashion as Abercrombie & Fitch. Get ‘em hooked when their young. It’s a good approach. It works for the cigarette companies. But hooked on what? Puerile mockery which only inflames your “opponents” and accomplishes nothing positive?

Edgy. Good luck.

Here’s another quote I liked, from Christopher Hitchens: “I think religion should be treated with ridicule, hatred and contempt, and I claim that right.” Yeah. And I think blacks should be treated with ridicule, hatred and contempt. I think gays should be treated with ridicule, hatred and contempt. I think Republicans should be treated with ridicule, hatred and contempt. Hitler thought Jewish people should be treated with ridicule, hatred and contempt — and condemning the group of people is tantamount to condemning each individual person. What are we to do with these religious? Put them in gas chambers? Or just poke fun at them until they give in saying, Hey, you’re right, your ridicule has shown me how stupid I am, thanks?

And don’t think I was joking about the gas chambers. Why should we believe that radical atheists are not capable of the same atrocities that have been committed by radical religious people? Note that Hitler’s ideology and policies did not result from any religious worldview. Why should I believe they are pure and good any more than I believe the Pope is pure and good? Here’s why: because they are right. Problem is, the Pope is right, too. So was Hitler. So is Bibi Netanyahu, and so is Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. So am I, so are you, so is everyone.

Fortunately, there are some card-carrying atheists, so to speak, who are wary of this “new atheism”. Says Paul Kurtz, founder of the Center for Inquiry, an organization whose mission “is to foster a secular society based on science, reason, freedom of inquiry, and humanist values”, about these people: “Merely to critically attack religious beliefs is not sufficient. It leaves a vacuum. What are you for? We know what you’re against, but what do you want to defend?”

At the other end of the spectrum of fanaticism, we have this piece by Bill Donohue, president of the Catholic League, with whom (unlike the atheists) I am inclined to agree on several points and sympathize on others. Popular culture does frequently mock Christianity in general and Catholicism in particular, and there is a forceful and rather silly campaign in the U.S. to sanitize the country of anything halfway religious (take Salazar v. Buono, which, like the argument that Obama can’t accept the Nobel Peace Prize on Constitutional grounds, may stand up in a court of law, but falls on its ass in the Court of Common Sense); and yes, I deplore all “scatological artistic exhibitions,” like the ones mentioned in the atheism article, and yes, I sincerely love good ol’ fashioned American Tradition, a part of which is Jesus and Christmas and Santa Claus. But — “cultural nihilists are busy trying to sabotage America”? Bitch, please.

Yesterday’s radicals wanted to tear down the economic structure of capitalism and replace it with socialism, and eventually communism. Today’s radicals are intellectually spent: they want to annihilate American culture, having absolutely nothing to put in its place.

Obviously you haven’t been anywhere near a college campus recently. At UMD, I had to carry a baseball bat around to fend off the socialist pamphleteers, the kids in Che Guevara hats and shirts (granted, they were idiots), my TWO Latin professors who were radical commie liberals (what was that about?). I stopped going to the Maryland Food Co-op in the basement of the Student Union after hearing that a guy in a pro-Israel t-shirt was denied service. Frankly, we’d be better off if today’s youth really didn’t have any ideologies.

Sexual libertines, from the Marquis de Sade to radical gay activists, have sought to pervert society by acting out on their own perversions. What motivates them most of all is a pathological hatred of Christianity. They know, deep down, that what they are doing is wrong, and they shudder at the dreaded words, “Thou Shalt Not.” But they continue with their death-style anyway.

There are, unfortunately, many homosexuals whose untethered lifestyles lead to AIDS and other STDs. And among the healthy, there are those whose meaningless hookup rate is alarmingly high, indicating, in my view, some sort of psychological issue. These problems exist among the heteros too, though . . . But this is beside the point. Whether or not buggery is perverse, its practitioners are not out to pervert society. Well, probably some are, but they’re the exceptions. Many hate Christianity, yes. But that’s the effect of their sexual preference (and your hateful railing against it), not the cause. They see the bigotry that exists in the churches, illustrated quite well by yourself, Bill Donohue, and they’re turned off. When I converted to Catholicism, I was taught to feel love towards everyone, even enemies. Don’t make me quote Scripture at you, Billy. Just open up your Bible to any of the Gospels and read what Jesus has to say to us. Does he tell us to hate people who are attracted to men and use hateful language towards them and suggest that they are involved in conspiracies to threaten our precious values? Or does he say that he among us who is without sin should cast the first stone? That guy was awesome. You’re a jerk.

The culture war is up for grabs. The good news is that religious conservatives continue to breed like rabbits, while secular saboteurs have shut down: they’re too busy walking their dogs, going to bathhouses and aborting their kids. Time, it seems, is on the side of the angels.

Now, I also do not like abortion. But dogs? I’m pretty sure I’ve known Catholics who have had dogs. Dogs are cute. What do you have against them? Come on, look:

WHY DO YOU HATE US, BILL DONOHUE???

Am I wrong?

So, the old-school atheists worry that the new atheists are creating an ideological vacuum, and the religious fascists worry that the queers are creating a cultural one.

For my part, I believe things are just fine. The godless namecallers are harmless, if obnoxious. They will fail. And as for American culture, it has been destroyed dozens of times since 1776, and yet here we are talking about it. There’s always a bombastic old bastard bellowing about our values. Then he dies. We realize that times change. The values that are truly worth keeping stand up against the insidious evils in our society, be they red or lavender.

In The Court of Common Sense

I don’t like to get involved in political arguments, but every now and again something comes along that’s hard for me to ignore.

I have no strong opinion for or against Obama’s winning the Nobel Peace Prize. I know I don’t have any major problem with it. As one friend whose opinions I respect pointed out to me, all of America won this prize, and for some Americans to start foaming at the mouth because they’re on the other side of the aisle is petty and mean. But as the attacks from the right become more and more severe, I’m wishing more and more that everyone would just shut up and let it drop. But sheeplike polarized thinking breeds, of course, more sheeplike polarized thinking. Thus I was not terribly surprised to find this in the Washington Post, a sloppy and childish attempt to prove that Obama is “barred constitutionally from accepting” the prize. I’m not going to fight fire with partisan fire (indeed, I have no partisan arsenal to draw from); instead, I’m going to do my best to tear this thing apart.

I admit at the outset that my knowledge of law and politics is pretty weak; I’m working according to my own sense, which is what my blog is about. Let’s begin:

“Article I, Section 9, of the Constitution, the emolument clause, clearly stipulates. . . .” Alright, this is probably just bad wording on the part of the authors, Ronald D. Rotunda and J. Peter Pham. I’m sure they know what I’m about to point out. But just to set the record straight, Article I, Section 9 is comprised of eight clauses, the last of which is the emolument clause. Other clauses discuss habeas corpus, taxes, and commerce, among other things. Whatever.

Next they quote from the emolument clause. The full clause goes like this: “No Title of Nobility shall be granted by the United States: And no Person holding any Office of Profit or Trust under them, shall, without the Consent of the Congress, accept of any present, Emolument, Office, or Title, of any kind whatever, from any King, Prince or foreign State.” But Rotunda and Pham leave out the nobility part before “And no person. . . .” Okay, everybody living in the year 2009 knows that the U.S. doesn’t bestow titles of nobility upon its citizens, and never has; so why mention it if it’s not relevant to the matter at hand, Obama’s win? Well, because it’s proximity to the rest of the clause, which is indeed a continuation of the same sentence, illuminates the clause as a whole: The framers of the Constitution seem to be concerned that the titles and noble nonsense of Britain and the rest of Europe not be carried over to the new republic they’re putting together. Obama has not had any title conferred upon him. Though accepting the prize may conflict with the emolument clause (that “may” will be elucidated further as I go on), it has nothing to do with hierarchical systems of nobility, and furthermore, it just doesn’t matter. Read on:

“The award of the peace prize to a sitting president is not unprecedented. But Theodore Roosevelt and Woodrow Wilson received the honor for their past actions. . . .” Irrelevant. If the argument is that a sitting president cannot accept the prize, then Roosevelt’s and Wilson’s accomplishments are irrelevant. How can you get so off the topic so soon into the editorial? This whole paragraph is nothing but an aside, a dig at Obama’s lack of concrete achievement. Rotunda and Pham have shot themselves in their proverbial foot.

“Obama’s award is different. It is intended to affect future action. As a member of the Nobel Committee explained, the prize should encourage Obama to meet his goal of nuclear disarmament.” Well that’s fine. But as the Committee’s official press release explained, Obama was chosen first and foremost “for his extraordinary efforts to strengthen international diplomacy and cooperation between peoples.” Sure, the Committee wants to encourage Obama to make good on his promises to the world. But  whether or not you agree with his administration’s foreign policy, he is receiving the award for something he has already done. His “extraordinary efforts” have perhaps not yielded much so far, but the efforts have been and continue to be made. In fact, Alfred Nobel himself might, I reckon, hail Obama. Check out this blurb from his will, in which, after discussing the prizes to be given in his name for physics, chemistry, medicine and literature, he enjoins that a fifth prize be given “. . . to the person who shall have done the most or the best work for fraternity between nations, for the abolition or reduction of standing armies and for the holding and promotion of peace congresses.” The key phrase here is “the most or the best work”. Can Obama’s efforts be categorized as “work”? I suppose there are those who will answer no, but the answer is, in fact, yes. Look up “effort” in Webster’s, Rotunda’s and Pham’s dictionary of choice (I myself prefer the OED).

“The five-member Nobel commission is elected by the Storting, the parliament of Norway. Thus the award of the peace prize is made by a body representing the legislature of a sovereign foreign state.” True enough. But three of the five have been on the committee since 2003 and earlier, before Obama was elected to the Senate, let alone the Presidency. This breaks the link between Barack Obama and the parliament of Norway, which could not have had Obama in mind when they elected these three members. And in any event, it seems to me the fact that the committee is elected by the Storting doesn’t make the committee an extension of the Norwegian government, any more than it makes it a “King, Prince or foreign State.” Maybe it ought to be seen this way through the cold, judging eyes of the law, but really, it’s a stretch.

“An opinion of the U.S. attorney general advised, in 1902, that ‘a simple remembrance,’ even ‘if merely a photograph, falls under the inclusion of “any present of any kind whatever.” ‘ President Clinton’s Office of Legal Counsel, in 1993, reaffirmed the 1902 opinion, and explained that the text of the clause does not limit ‘its application solely to foreign governments acting as sovereigns.’ This opinion went on to say that the emolument clause applies even when the foreign government acts through instrumentalities.” Well, in the immortal words of the Dude, “Yeah, well, you know, that’s just, like, your opinion, man.” Were these opinions ever made law? And — a photograph? Seriously? Besides, Clinton himself received awards from foreign governments: In 1998, the Czech Republic’s Order of the White Lion, First Class with Collar Chain (for more very detailed information about this award, click here); and in 2000, the International Charlemagne Prize of Aachen. As for the the opinion of the attorney general in 1902, let’s not forget who was president at the time — Teddy Roosevelt, who, Rotunda and Pham note, won the Peace Prize three years later, while still in office. In short, this whole 1902 opinion about the emolument clause is not worthy of mention. I have no doubt that if I were to browse through the histories of every president since TR (and many before), I would find that each and every one received something from a foreign power or leader, and probably more than a photograph.

As for foreign governments acting through instrumentalities — can the Nobel Committee be called an instrument of the Storting? That implies that the Norwegian legislature controls it like a marionette. Maybe it does, maybe it does . . . But prove it.

“Giving that $1.4 million to a charity could give him a deduction that would reduce his income taxes by $500,000 — not a nominal amount.” This is another dig at Obama, a cynical and filthy comment that suggests he’s just in it for the tax break. Come on now. As if he somehow played a hand in the Committee’s decision so he could save a buck.

“Moreover, the money is not his to give away. It belongs to the United States: A federal statute provides that if the president accepts a ‘tangible or intangible present’ for more than a minimal value from any foreign government, the gift ‘shall become the property of the United States.’ “ This is probably the biggest flaw in Rotunda’s and Pham’s argument. In the event the president DEFIES THE CONSTITUTION, this federal statute goes, the money’s not his.  THEY ARE USING A FEDERAL STATUTE WHICH CONTRADICTS THEIR ARGUMENT TO ADVANCE THEIR ARGUMENT. It is by now abundantly clear that common sense requires us to realize that every letter of every law cannot and must not be followed in every case. It is also clear that Rotunda and Pham don’t like Obama, and that if a Republican incumbent president were receiving the Nobel Peace Prize, they wouldn’t be dishing out this bullshit. And this leads me to the last point I’m going to make before wrapping this up and trying to forget about it:

“This is at least the second time that Obama has run afoul of the emolument clause. On June 3, 2009, the day before he gave his speech in Cairo on relations with the Muslim world, he accepted (and even donned) the bejeweled Collar of the King Abdul Aziz Order of Merit, Saudi Arabia’s highest honor, from the hands of King Abdullah. (President Bush was awarded the Order in January last year.)“ (Red coloring mine.) This needs no reply. I will respond only by repeating what Rotunda and Pham themselves just said, which damns their whole foolish argument:

President Bush holds the King Abdul Aziz Order of Merit medal presented to him by Saudi King Abdullah, right, his host for a two-day stopover. (By Pablo Martinez Monsivais -- Associated Press)

That’s really all we need to see. Most of this post has been superfluous. This is contemptible, despicable, intellectually dishonest partisan prattle, and I only hope that these people are not fooling themselves, on top of trying to fool us.

Enough. I’m done.

Tolerance, Self-Acceptance, and Other Impossibilities

A couple posts ago, I made reference to my respect for and love of tradition, and its constant battling with what one might call my יצר הרע, my evil inclination.

I grew up in an Orthodox Jewish household. Halfway through high school, I decided I didn’t want to be Jewish. Around this time I remember hating God. I was never an atheist, I just thought He was a Jerk. Also around this time, I started to become gradually more aware that I was attracted to men. (The five sentences in this paragraph allude to enough personal history to make up a weighty autobiography, but I ain’t gonna start that project just now.)

Towards the end of high school, I determined that I didn’t want to be attracted to men, that not being into women would prevent me from doing and having a lot of things I wanted. (Years later, it is. But I’m resigned to it.) In the first half of my freshman year of college, I started to toy with the idea of converting to Catholicism. On April 15, 2006, I was baptized, confirmed, and given my first communion. (Volume II of the autobiography.)

I converted to Catholicism basically for social reasons (failure), and because I hoped it would help fight the gayness (super-huge failure).

A year later I was already becoming interested in Judaism again. My negative experiences and feelings growing up need not prevent me from connecting to my roots. Did I return to Orthodoxy? Hell no. I know people who know people who live as Orthodox Jews and also have sex with men, but aside from the obvious conflict there, well, I just really, really like bacon. I never considered affiliating myself with any other branch of Judaism either; I grew up Orthodox, and everything else is alien and weird to me. No, I was Jewish in my own way, participating when I wanted and as I wanted.

Then, in July 2008, I moved to Israel. The idea had been hatched in January, when I was visiting here and on the first day my friend I was staying by said, “Hey, you should move to Israel,” and I was like, “Okay”. When people ask me why I came here, the reason I give — the only reason I have — is “I felt like it”. I’m piss-poor, I live paycheck-to-paycheck with little hope of advancement in the next few years, and I ache for my native land. But I don’t regret that I came, and I intend to stick around a little while longer.

In December 2008 I began a relationship with a man, with whom I live now. He does not have the same religious background I do. Since coming here, he has been getting more in touch with his Jewishness, and since we’ve been together, has been inspiring me to do the same. We now read the weekly Torah portion every week, and we recently started lighting candles on shabbat. It feels a little funny reading “And don’t lie with a man as one lies with a woman; it is an abomination” with my boyfriend (this verse is, eerily, in the first portion we happened to read — sign from God?), and it feels very strange to me to make the blessing over the candles and then proceed to do things that are forbidden on shabbat . . . But it feels good, too.

That background may help you to understand how I felt last shabbat, when the following incident occurred:

—- and I were taking a walk, and we had brought our camera with us. I feel some discomfort walking around Jerusalem snapping pictures on shabbat, but evidently not enough to make me not do it. So, we’re walking through the neighborhood of Nachlaot. It’s a charming, quiet place with a maze of narrow alleys lined with little houses. If I had to guess, I would say that most of the population keeps the shabbat and other commandments. (I can’t say they’re all “Orthodox,” because that term doesn’t have much meaning in Israel, where there are Jewish fundamentalists who would consider my mother a shiksah.) Today, it is not only shabbat, but sukkot as well, one of those crazy Jewish holidays; the one on which we build booths, or “sukkahs,” and eat in them.

We pass through a large group of yarmulkah’ed kids playing in a little park with their mothers standing by, we pass men on their way to shul, we pass almost no one who looks twice at us, or even once. I stop to take a picture of an interesting sukkah, and as I lower the camera and we keep walking, I notice an ultra-Orthodox-looking man lurking twenty feet back, moving slowly and apparently aimlessly, and watching us.

We come out of the maze onto Bezalel Street, a main Jerusalem road where a fair number of cars are passing back and forth. We walk along, the houses of Nachlaot on our right. I stop to take another picture, and I notice the man again, nearer, approaching me, and suddenly saying, “With all due respect, what you are doing is really wrong. It’s terribly disrespectful to walk through an ultra-Orthodox neighborhood like that, it’s like burning an American flag in front of a group of Marines, it’s very disrespectful . . .” and so on. He spoke in English; I think he was South African. I probably paused for a second, and then said, “Well I’m sorry if I offended you . . .”

I don’t know if I would have continued that sentence, qualified it with a “but,” had he not simply walked away before I could finish my response. But afterwards, I vented to —-. I was pissed. First off, I would hardly classify Nachlaot as “ultra-Orthodox”. If there are some ultra-Orthodox families who live there, that’s fine, but they must be aware that there are less observant and non-observant people living around the corner. I would never take a camera into Mea She’arim or the surrounding areas, which truly are ultra-ultra-Orthodox, where no one is not ultra-ultra-Orthodox, and where I would get many dirty looks, have verbal abuse heaped upon me, and possibly get pelted with stones. As I noted, almost no one in Nachlaot looked at us, and almost no one was dressed like the South African stalker, who himself was not ultra-ultra-Orthodox-looking enough for Mea She’arim.

Second, burning a U.S. flag in front of military personnel would be a childish act of defiance intended to upset people. Taking photographs may upset people, but that’s their trip. My intention was not to offend. So that faulty analogy, rather than stirring any feelings of regret or contrition, offended me.

Third, as I have intimated already, the guy was not heading anywhere, at least not after he saw us. He dropped whatever course he had been taking and followed us for several minutes until he mustered the courage to speak his mind. Why? Seriously, just . . . go home.

But as often happens, my anger mixed with my own feelings of religious propriety, which I had felt even before I had seen him, and with the knowledge that I couldn’t say he was entirely in the wrong. One of the most satisfying things in life is knowing that you’re right, goddammit; one of the most frustrating is knowing that your anger is impure. Of course I had known all along that, although Nachlaot is not ultra-Orthodox, there are people there who don’t like cameras in their neighborhood on shabbat. I had just hoped they would all keep their opinions to themselves as I sheepishly sidled past them. Moreover, his own shyness, indicated by his hesitance in speaking to me and his quick departure after he had finished; and the lack of anger in his words and his tone, which were more pleading than anything; made it difficult for me to hate him.

The full range of my thoughts and feelings is difficult to map out, but it’s enough to say that I was left angry and slightly ashamed, a most unpleasant cocktail of emotion.

My mood and my spirit were redeemed later in the walk, though; and this sequel will be the subject of an upcoming post.

Yankl and the Cow; or, New Adventures in Bad Analogies

Yesterday I replaced my old cellphone, which had been declining in health for over a month. I could hear people fine, but they couldn’t hear me. The last conversation I had before I canned the old phone was with my mom. At first, she spoke normally while I screamed — screamed — to make myself heard. After awhile, she started screaming too. It ended with “OK BYE I LOVE YOU!!!” shouted in a tone more angry than anything else.

There’s an old story I remember being told more than once throughout my Jewish education. I don’t remember the details exactly, so I’m gonna just kind of make it up. Yankl was a poor man who lived with his wife and five children on the outskirts of a shtetl somewhere, I dunno, let’s say Poland. Yankl was poor. His house was a ramshackle two-roomer, no space, no privacy, dirt and deprivation of all sorts. Yankl kept some raggedy animals, chickens and a cow and such, with which he tried to make ends meet.

One day Yankl saw all the bills stacking up, the creditors knocking down his door, and almost despaired. He went to his rebbe for advice. “Rebbe,” he said, “I can’t take this any more. My children are hungry. I can’t live like this. I daven to Hashem three times a day, more even, but He doesn’t answer.”

“HaKadosh Baruch Hu answers all our prayers,” the rebbe replied. “But sometimes the answer is no.” He paused. “Here’s what I want you to do: Bring the dog into the house. Don’t let him out.”

“But rebbe, have you seen my home? It’s already a dump! What is the dog going to –”

“Just do it,” the rebbe interrupted, and turned to an open Gemara on his desk.

Yankl walked home, puzzled but cautiously hopeful that his trusted rebbe’s odd advice might help.

Well, you can imagine what the dog did to the place! Yankl was at his wits end. After a week, he went back to his rebbe.

“Rebbe, it’s terrible. The dog is creating a terrible racket, cooped up inside all the time. And the floor is covered with–”

“You raise chickens, don’t you?”

“Well yes, but the dog–”

“Bring in the chickens.”

“Rebbe?”

“Take the chickens into your home.”

Yankl walked home again, more confused than last time, and starting to question his good rebbe’s sanity.

Needless to say, the chickens only made things worse. Droppings everywhere, crowing at all hours of the day and night, one of them even pecked at Mendele, the baby; and Yankl couldn’t afford to call the doctor.

“Oh, Avinu She’ BaShamayim, what am I to do? How can I possibly know greater misery than this?”

Yankl was nearing the end of his rope. He decided to ask his rebbe one more time what he ought to do.

“Bring in the cow,” the rebbe said.

“But rebbe,” Yankl pleaded, “it’s terrible as it is! The dog is eating all my clothes, there are feces everywhere, one of the chickens pecked my Mendele . . .”

“Do it,” the rebbe said, and returned to his Gemara.

Yankl brought in the cow. I don’t even want to tell you what kind of a mess she made of things! Let me just tell you, it was not pretty. Yankl suffered his yoke for another week, walking the filthy floor and wondering why Hashem would treat him this way, and what the rebbe could possibly be thinking. What could the rebbe possibly have been thinking?

Yankl schlepped to the rebbe’s house yet again. Winter had arrived in full force by now, bringing with it heavy storms. Yankl began to weep as he trudged through the wind and snow.

“Rebbe,” he cried, after the rebbetzin showed the wretched man into the rebbe’s study. “Rebbe–”

“Now I want you to let them all out.”

“Let them–?”

“The cow, the chickens, the dog. Throw them outside.”

Yankl trudged back home again, but now his heart was filled with joy. He ejected the beasts, and in a few hours his wife had everything nicely tidied up.

“Baruch Hashem!” Yankl cried. “Baruch Hashem!”

Yankl, his wife, and his five children lived happily after that. Mendele, the baby, grew up to become a prosperous doctor, and Yankl would often sit in the rocking chair in his youngest son’s home and reminisce, over a mug of borscht, about those days, and praise the wise rebbe who had saved them.

Social Action and Moral Perversion

I got home yesterday and browsed through the Washington Post before getting into the shower after my filthy, sweaty day of work — as I often do — and found this piece. I suggest anyone reading my blog stop now and read it, but in case you don’t, here’s the gist: A patriotic kid joins the Navy on his 18th birthday and winds up in Bahrain working with bomb sniffing dogs. Awesome. Only thing is, he’s gay, and though he “doesn’t tell,” his clever fellow Navy men figure out he’s a homo when they observe his lack of interest in discussions of prostitutes and sexual conquests. What ensues is more or less torture (using the word loosely), and “don’t ask, don’t tell,” according to the first-person narrative, played a large role in bringing about a number of unpardonable and even tragic events. Fuck my summary, just read the article. Really.

I suppose one reason I felt as moved as I did by the piece is that I myself am sexually attracted to men, and struggle to reconcile my “lifestyle” (I loathe that word, but it fits) with utterly unrelated and often incompatible notions of what “normal” life is and ought to be. I am not a self-hater (though I may have been once), but convention and tradition are very meaningful to me (even if many of my actions in life openly defy my traditions — this is the beautiful hypocrisy that makes us human — expect to see the concepts of contradiction, confusion, identity, and hypocrisy discussed in more detail in future posts). When one thinks patriotic kid who enlists on his 18th birthday or captain of the high school football team or young successful business man, one likely considers the kid’s girlfriend who will wait for him back home (maybe they’ll get married first), the football captain’s fawning cheerleaders being clumsily groped in the back seat of his car (maybe he’ll knock one of them up), the business man’s super-hot wife and hotter secretary (she’s totally gonna divorce him). These images are clichés, stereotypes, but they are based on real tradition, real people who have actually existed, who have served as the clichés’ prototypes and, later, their ubiquitous real-life representatives.

So to read about the young man who loves his country but will never start a family, as young men of his type often do, is at once refreshing and distressing to me. As a conformist in mind but not in deed, I like to see people like myself happily conforming to our society’s expectations. Yet as someone who loves freedom, dignity, and good ol’ fashioned common human decency, I want to go out and give this guy a hug. (JUST a hug.)

And that, of course, is the more obvious reason the article affected me — such shocking injustice and downright horror would affect most anyone. Most anyone — take a look at this excerpt from the script of “Philadelphia“. Denzel Washington plays Joe Miller, a lawyer representing Tom Hanks, another lawyer who is fired after the top brass in his firm realize he has AIDS. A lawyer from the firm is on the stand, and Denzel, asking him about his Navy service, alludes to the stereotype of the horny sailor who, in the absence of women, turns to men. This exchange ensues:

JOE You had one guy "like that"?
KENTON Yeah. But we took care of him.
JOE How did you do that?
KENTON We stuck his head in the latrine, after ten of us had used it.
JOE You taught him a lesson.
KENTON Yes, we did.

And I have to throw this in, too — the “trivia” page for “Philadelphia” on imdb.com (Internet Movie Database) mentions this charming factoid: “The protestors outside the courthouse holding signs are based on the members of the Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kansas, led by “Reverend” Fred Phelps. Phelps calls this movie ‘one of my favorite comedies’.” (Incidentally, the morally perverted Westboro Baptist Church became a special interest of mine some time ago, when I saw an article in the Washington Post about the group’s plan to picket Walt Whitman High School in Bethesda, MD, because it’s namesake probably had homosexual relations of some sort. Their main website, full of lively gay-bashing, antisemitism, and other hateful vitriol can be found at www.godhatesfags.com.)

At a fundraising dinner Saturday night for the Human Rights Campaign, the largest gay rights group in the States, Obama renewed his vows to repeal “don’t ask, don’t tell,” and to fight for gay rights, including marriage. On Sunday, tens of thousands of people gathered for a gay rights rally at the Capitol in DC. Of course, whatever the legal outcome of these speeches and efforts, anti-gay sentiment ain’t goin’ nowhere anytime soon. What happened at My Lai in 1968 was illegal in the extreme, but it still happened; and of those charged, few were tried; and of those tried, one was convicted; and the one convicted ended up spending very little time in jail.

Then consider the endless evidence in the press and in the world that, despite Obama’s truly inspiring victory in the 2008 election, racism in America is alive and well. Things change — but slowly.

None of this is meant to say that all is hopeless — we just need to be patient. We fight for what we believe in לאט לאט, a little bit at a time, and the world changes לאט לאט.

More on my beliefs, general and personal, on social and political action in the future.