So let's have another round.

A friend from out of town came to spend the weekend. Local friends came because they're in town. Friday night dinner is Mexican food: homemade tortillas, guacamole, salsa, chicken and rice and beans, along with a full drink selection, beer from Palestine, Czech and Russia - the good life.

Dinner ends, all the food scarfed away. Though some drinks were left, the time had come to take our imbibing public. We decide upon a pub, centrally located in consideration of the end of the night. We'll all have to walk home, but roughly the same distance.

On the way there a stop is made for smokes - Winstons, like the Ghostbuster. At the kiosk we're told about the terror attack in Tel Aviv. People murdered, injured, lives cut short, promises broken and so forth. It's easy to wax philosophic when it comes to terror attacks. All of us know people in Tel Aviv and there was that pause of contemplation, do we go on our way while others who set out for the same met their untimely end? (no elderly folk were headed to said bombed disco)

Now, I didn't vote for him, and I don't consider him my President as much as I consider him a fetus the wire hanger missed but W makes a good point in that we can not let the terrorists win. And, god damn it, I will not!

At that very moment, the best thing we could have done was go out and get our drinks - to sit at the bar, order Arak and Guinness, nosh on pretzels and ogle scantily clad BGU students. This seemed like the most normal activity in which to participate. Perhaps I'd of thought differently had I not been so horny. But, honestly, how much can one man whack-off? Ladies I beg of you!

Set on denying the terrorists a victory I pushed forward, while my mates pushed the little numbered buttons on their respective communication transmitters. I took those first few baby steps in the direction of brewed refreshment. Here I will proclaim, the terrorists lost! As a Jew, Israeli and American I can confidently proclaim, "I fought the good fight and came away victorious, drunk, a bit wiser and a bit older."

We secured our seats on the couches, coveted pub real estate, ordered and proceeded to discuss the hottest bird in the joint. Beyond handing the bastardized lovers of Allah defeat we wanted to get laid.* On a trip to the bathroom I passed her twice, on the way there and again on the return. My friends informed me I was checked out each time and encouraged me, with the promise of a cash bet to "go for it," as they say in the parlance of our times.

She walked outside to talk on her cell. I followed her having a pretend conversation for the duration of her real one.** She soon reentered the pub leaving me alone, outside, to be consoled by my fake friend alone. Remembering I had real friends, and a drink, waiting for me inside I also returned, to learn that I would not receive the cash award put on the table. Shortly afterwards the same hot chick left the pub and I was quickly faced with intense peer pressure to go after her.

I did, was reprimanded for starting with her in English, switched to Hebrew, and was informed of the existence of her boyfriend (not present). I told her it was no worries, that I have a girlfriend (not existent) and then made fun of her minivan. We parted ways and I returned to the same friends and the same drink. The size of my genitalia was glorified while the size of my stiffened member was ignored.

It felt good. Life was lived, chances were taken, a sting was felt and laughs were shared all around. Fuck the terrorists, really. It's a shame the wire hanger missed you too.

*At this juncture I'll point out that there was a female in our crowd. A cute one in fact, which means the males gathered were rubber stamped by the fairer sex to be crude as such.

**As a point of male pride, and the only one in this entry, I faked it with her!

When you live in Israel...what was I talking about again?

Man, when you live here, and specifically in some out of the way city that just doesn't make sense, you get to thinking. As hard as you might try not to get to thinking, and as much as the people around you (read: locals) don't do it, there just isn’t much choice, like a pregnant Catholic teen.

Walking to the bank today was a nice little adventure, for example. I have a car but am hoping to sell it so I'm getting myself into practice for life on two feet. Here in Beer Sheva there're buses. The catch is every bus needs a bus driver and they are on strike about half the year. Anyway, the walk is short enough, about fifteen minutes.

Crossing the main street, and waiting for the red guy to turn green, the blaring sirens of an ambulance resonated. Just a couple minutes down the road from Soroka Hospital, the emergency vehicle was stuck behind too many cars whose drivers all seemed to be on strike, perhaps in sympathy with their public transport counterparts. I finally got my taste of the beloved Doppler effect once the light turned green, only then, when the cars went on their way as normal, was there room enough for the ambulance to pass.

Once on the other side, I walked past the spot where two buses were blown up, the end of this past summer, by an impatient terrorist. You know where it is because of all the foil wrappers of the memorial candles still embedded in mounds of wax on the sidewalk. Impatient? Well, the two events may be connected.

It seems that it would make more sense for the terrorists to abandon their violent ways, taking their fight for freedom to the streets, doors, minds and hearts of the world. Peaceful protest and peaceful resistance is certainly an easier sell, the fucking PR material could write itself, or I'll do it. I need a job.

But, I digress, hang up the ole' suicide belts in the closet - not the one in the bedroom but the one deep in the basement. Then let us kill ourselves. We might not let your ambulances through checkpoints, leaving your sick and enfeebled to die in transit, but don't take it personally, we do the same to ourselves. With the total amount of people killed on our roads since the establishment of the state than from terror and war combined, technically I should fear my fellow Israeli, behind the wheel, more than my sworn enemy, every Palestinian.

Never mind. I got to the bank all right though. It was open, which could have gone either way, having little to do with the hours posted on the door. And that means I walked home with a smile. Hopefully, the person in the ambulance did as well.

Peace is gonna be so freakin' awesome!

It's in the air. People are talking. And, of course, there're tourists cheerfully strolling along pedestrian malls and occupying the cafes. It can only mean one thing: The liberal media has gone soft and accepted Ariel Sharon as a peacenik and absolved him of all his earlier war crimes.

No worries, there're happy-go-lucky war criminals amongst the Palestinians with cushy government (in-the-making) positions. This just goes to prove the age old adage, "It's not the crime or the time, it's that your deed is reciprocated." Of course, the exception that proves the role is the endless number of Nazis ending their illustrious careers in Argentina and Canada, but I digress.

Has no one noticed that Israel is not ready for peace? Don't get me wrong, this may very well be the case amongst the Palestinians, and I would guess that it is, but I am much more familiar with this place here, so I'll stick to it.

Socially, culturally, we talk about it, sing about it and make travel plans based upon it, but, really, I don't think we have one fucking clue as to what this means. We are a state at war with our neighbors. Our identity, our concept of self, our very essence is based upon this. And too many people here would be lost trying to judge the character of a man without being able to gauge him based upon his army service.

We are racists, prejudiced and socially lazy. Peace is desired but not planned for. We like being a hard, course people, it puts thousands of years of weakness and persecution into context. That was all just one cruel experience that gave us the cajones to get to where we are today - never mind the Holocaust complex. But, that was a bitch, and though we're not the victims anymore it still stings to talk about it.

The point? Israelis want to believe their shit don't stink as much as the next guy. Our problem is that we place almost all the blame for the conflict on the Arabs. After all, we're the fastidious, benevolent bringers of democracy to a hostile and repressive environment. Until we realize that we share responsibility peace will not be able to take root and we'll be left in the cold telling ourselves the Palestinians kept us locked outside.

Beer Sheva's a City Too!

I live in Beer Sheva first and Israel second. Not too many people would say that and I very well may be lying - except that I really do live in Beer Sheva.

For those not in the know, BS is the "Capital of the Negev," not to be confused with "The Happiest Place on Earth." I had some errands to run this morning. Being that it was a nice day I figured I'd walk the fifteen minutes to the central shopping area rather than drive it, like the lazy fuck I usually am.

Bank Hapoalim came first. This is where I go every couple months to receive my rent subsidy check from the government as part of my absorption package. The 250 shekels I am given for a months rent is nice and it does help. It also covers the same portion of my rent as much as a Catholic priests notebook protects his choir boy from anal tutoring.

While waiting for the mortgage teller to get off the phone and acknowledge the long line of old Russian immigrants and me I was entertained by two little kids playing in the lobby. The sister, about four years old, was watching her little brother, about two years old, while their mom waited in her long line. Here it may be assumed that at the end of her much longer line she would be charged for whatever transaction she makes on her own account as is fashionable in Israel's banking system.*

These two adorable children were right out of some commercial: cute and loquacious. Until the brother turned nasty and started beating his sister, well I thought that was cute, too. He wanted to run down the stairs and the sister kept stopping him. Then he wanted to play with the fire extinguisher, possible to use as a blunt instrument. But, once again, he was thwarted by the pre-school matriarch, and thus, he resorted to open hand blows to her face. His sister, knowing that to be effective in keeping him from victory and succumbing to the alluring nature that is a stair well, retreated to telling him there was a fire there because of an explosion. Heartwarming.

From there it was into the heart of the beast, the Bezeq Store. This is where Bezeq distributes its equipment, sells its overpriced phones and collects young Christian children for using their blood in the making of Passover matzahs. I must say, and surprisingly so, that I was able to return my ADSL modem with no trouble whatsoever - it must have been a bumper year for matzah.

On my way to the store I passed along the part of the street, along Rager Blvd, where beggars and entrepreneurship meet. Be it three-card Monty, that game with the pea and three walnut shells, bootleg cigarettes or the Israeli cell phone company Pelephone, all can be found along this magical strip. Most often the purveyors are old, down and out Russian immigrants who don't collect their 250 shekels each month. At the end of all this human drippage is the Bezeq Store, but not before passing the guy with the emaciated stomach.

My only prior experience with emaciated stomachs has been through the lens provided by Sally Struthers. As a person who finds it hard not to stare at someone sitting in a wheel chair this unnatural perversion was as easy for me to ignore as a one-legged man with a goiter. This individual was sitting against a wall, on a cardboard mat, his hand outstretched and his dirty black and blue flannel shirt unbuttoned, exposing his bloated belly in a superb example of marketing - Himmler style.

The walk home was nice, sun still out and shining. I turn at the construction site of the new home of the Beer Sheva Symphonietta, a gargantuan structure that currently stands as a testament to concrete and pink marble tile. Originally scheduled to be finished by the summer of 2005 I noticed the faded sign was replaced with a new one informing the public that the new date of completion is to be the summer of 2006. From what I can tell there is only one man working on the building and he has Tuesday through Sunday off. My prediction is 2006 is still too optimistic. Luckily, the new sign has a beautiful picture of what some artist thinks the finished structure may very well look like. Ah, the sweet smell of urban renewal.

*At most banks here you are charged a small fee even to deposit money into your own account.