On Being Yozi

By Asi Gal

It took me a while to respond to Ari’s crying concerning his name. I was preoccupied what with writing the nerd piece while Ari was working hard proving that he is a nerd without writing a piece specifically about that topic.

So your name has a problematic pronunciation. Thanks for clearing that up in five different paragraphs. It sure is rough. Tons of Bosnian kids are shedding tears of pain over that, and dysentery. That is the troublesome pronunciation of your name and their severe, life-endangering, bloody and mucusy diarrhea. But since I am not too worried about the troubles of such Bosnian kids (hell, we just elected a prime minister who’s only goal so far has been not having a stroke) I will share why I have little to no sympathy for you.

My name, as many Jewish names, consists of two names, Asi and Yozi.

As you cry about the not-exactly-correct meaning of your name You are not Arie - a lion, you are Ari, which means bold. You ignorant, whiny, sexy idiot. Try having a name that has no meaning.

To many Americans named Bill or Biff or, at best, Chuck, not having any meaning to your name seems perfectly reasonable. Yet the Jews, not unlike the Africans, have meaning to their names. For example, Ehud means loveable. The irony is killing me.

You lived in a country full of Stanleys while you had a meaningful name. I, on the other hand, live in a country full of “my name means the strongest tree in the forest” while my own name is meaningless.

For the most part, people think Asi a nickname derived from Assaf, which means “collected.” Assaf is a beautiful name - the name of high-ranking people. Asi, on the other hand, is the name of soccer players and one drunk film maker. I am neither. Though being drunk gets me closer to the latter.

One time, in my 7th grade art class, the teacher told us to draw a representation of our names. After twenty minutes, the first of which consisted of me writing my name inside a big circle and another 19 minutes spent wondering if Arnie Becker can outwit Michael Kuzak in court, the teacher came over and immediately questioned my non-drawing. I informed her that I couldn’t draw anything since my name has no meaning. To which she offered the suggestion that I could depict roads collecting into my name, as Assaf would imply. A beautiful idea, I thought to myself. If only my name was Assaf.

The next year, another one of my teachers politely complimented me that Assaf is a beautiful name. Then impolitely queried as to why I must ruin it. My immediate response was, “Well, being a woman is a beautiful thing, why do you ruin it?” But, I kept quiet because although I am Asi and not Assaf, I am still not some ars soccer player.
In other languages my name means “lucky” (Australian) or “new bride” (Korean) or “bum” (German). I like to think that I’m a bit of all three.

As I mentioned before, my middle name is Yozi - a Romanian name. Normally, this would not constitute a problem. Many people have a middle name that had previously belonged to their grandfather or something along those lines. Usually, when you find out that someone has such a name you mock him “Hey Vladim, you dirty, Russian boy” and what not. Everyone has a good laugh, the boy cries and just maybe, to young Vladim’s probably horror, it even becomes the source of a nickname – like “Vlad” or “dirty Russian boy.”

For me, I was hit hard by the Romanian surprise on one of the first day of high school when the teacher, taking attendance, called out for a “Yozi Gal.” This is how I learned that my first name is Yozi. Asi, it turned out, was the middle name. In fact, I am Yozi Gal. No nickname, just a plain old Romanian kid called Yozi.

Immediately the loud calls of “Yozzzzzzzzzzziiiiiiiiiiii!” followed me, emitted from the mouth of every nerd in school (though, I did take great comfort in realizing that they were much nerdier than me. Like Ahab discovering a whale nut more obsessed than himself). And, in the army, where I served with the local soccer arsim, there was no escaping the name.

After many years I finally learned to accept it. Yozi is my grandfather’s name and I loved him very much. Some people even say it’s a cool name. There was this one cute girl in particular who would playfully call me Yujin, which I loved, just as one loves any meaningless American-Jewish name. Like Eugene from Brighton Beach.

And that’s me, a non-ars, somewhat nerdish boy and a Romanian name to prove it.

On the plus side, however, when I’ll be a D.J. I’ll get to call myself Yo-Z. How cool is that?

Not very. Not very.

It truly was a magical holiday for everyone but me.

Passover 5766 is now behind us and, do to the special circumstance of this year’s festival, it deserves a retrospective. A retrospective that is, from Israel.

For those who do not know it, this holiday, which centers around the complimenting foci of the elimination of leavened bread and the harboring of only unleavened bread, is one day shorter in Israel. That is to say in Israel there are seven days of Passover while in the Diaspora it’s a week plus one. Due to this fact, in Israel there is only one seder meal, while in the Diaspora there are two. The seder, of course, is the first or first and second nights of the holiday when Jewish families gather together to retell their ancestors liberation from bondage in Egypt, partake in the eating of said unleavened bread and then drive home in their Mercedes and/or reasonably priced Japanese cars. Every year it is the same exact story that is told and it never changes. A point made all the more ridiculous when you perform this ritual two nights in a row – stupid, stupid Diaspora.

The thing is that, while in the Diaspora observing the rights of this holiday are optional while the non-Jewish, or Goys as they are called in the Hebrew original, world continues to function as if God’s chosen people were not already inconvenienced enough with such a highly restrictive diet, in Israel everyone observes the traditions and God’s laws as if one might burn in hell were he not to act in direct accordance to His will.

Unlike within the Goyisha Diaspora, the true magic of Passover shines through in Israel which, as a result, allows for the real magic of Israel to shine through. Passover, referred to in the Hebrew original as Pesach, is the closest thing we have to a holiday season in this country. In preparation for our week of matzah, as the unleavened flatbread is called in the Hebrew original, everyone in the country performs a thorough cleaning. More than the average “spring cleaning” this includes home, automobile, business, street and nature – anywhere that even the tiniest morsel of leaven may be found. As you should now be imagining, the country sparkles and shines when that first day of Passover rolls around. As should be expected, when you’re goal is the national annihilation of leavened bread, or hametz as it is called in Hebrew original, it’s a task that must be undertook on a national level. And, when an entire nation pitches in you can get your country really fucking clean.

Cleanliness is, as we Jews know, next to godliness. But, we also know that it is not enough. Work may equal freedom but suffering equals salvation and, in the end, we Jews know that’s what it’s all about. So, for seven straight days, Israel exists as a completely leaven free zone, commonly referred to as the LFZ in the Hebrew original. Aside from Passover 1968, during which there was a major confusion and the LFZ was mistaken for a zone in which all leaven could take refuge, not even the non-Jewish residents and temporary citizens partake in leaven as a sign of respect of the superiority of the Jewish God over all other gods, with the one possible exception being Jesus who is often called the new and improved God in the Hebrew original.

All of this translates to every last restaurant either being closed for the holiday vacation or being opened with a Passover friendly menu. For all intents and purposes it would be preferable were all restaurants to close rather than taunt the leaven deprived citizenry with dishes that, while still being called by their regular names, do not resemble nor taste like their 51-week incarnations.

However, during this week, freedom and liberation are gloriously celebrated by every last person in Israel with the exception being the indentured servants who come from various Asian countries and care for our Jewish-Israeli elderly and build our Jewish-Israeli homes, including old age homes (ah, the circle of life). And, this creates a unique holiday atmosphere unparalleled within any other culture or society with the exception of Israel where most everyone is leaven starved, stark raving mad and overtaken with the mass consumer culture that now pervades our society as it tries to decide whether it should be more like New York City or Los Angeles.

Next year in Tel Aviv!

You don’t win friends with salad – and that’s the truth, dickfor.

By Asi Gal

People are always asking me, “Hey Asi, what’s it like being a nerd?” To which I answer, “Your momma’s a nerd! Say that again and I’ll kill you with my spork!” Then I realize that using a Simpson’s reference as part of a threat is nerdish – and so is saying ‘nerdish’. And thus, I come to accept my lot in this life.

I take comfort in knowing that many great people are also nerds - Robin Williams, Al Gore and Abe “but I love the theater” Lincoln. Of course there’s also Adolph “I always do what I’m told” Eichmann, but I have a hard time viewing him as a role model what with the glasses and all. But, the fact remains that these people have all left their mark. Well, except for Gore, who will probably be forgotten by the next US elections or possibly by the time you’re finished reading this. It’s a shame, cause I really loved his little bear dance – at least I think that was Gore.

Anyway, what many people have a hard time understanding is whether or not they themselves are nerds. For deciphering personal status I have compiled a small list that tells you whether you were a nerdy kid and thus will always be a little nerd (Or, in Karim Abdul Jabbar’s case, a giant nerd. Yes, that was a nerd’s joke).

To be certain, number one on the list is not: if you compile a list to ascertain whether you are or are not a nerd. Trust me, the fact that you’re reading this blog to begin with is already much more nerdish. That being said, here’s the list:

a) Your first and only cigarette prior to but possibly including high school was your mom’s. You smoked it alone behind your house and you felt dangerous. Then you tried again because it’s addictive.

b) You were sure that if you used the “look at the girl, then when she looks at you, you quickly look away” technique at the cute girl in the third row of your arithmetic class then eventually she will come over and talk to you. And, despite that she never did you were certain it was the girl and not the technique and still, most likely, use the same technique to this day, certain that it is a matter of time until the right girl comes along.

c) You only told fart jokes when everyone else did but yours were always a bit too much. Like when everyone else farted you farted as well but a little poo found its way into your pants. Or, the few times when you tired of your trust technique (see ‘b’ above) you would try attracting that generically cute and popular girl with a well timed fart in her face.

d) You repeatedly discovered that there are some things that only popular kids are allowed to say. Not you. You are not popular. You’re a nerd.

e) You wiped mucus on your sleeve despite the fact that your mother included a small pack of tissues in your packed lunch and/or backpack.

f) You collected trading cards but didn’t play games with them, know anything about the player/game the card represented n did you understand the point of them (with the possible exception of Garbage Pail Kids). You only traded them.

g) Sometimes, on a lazy afternoon you would go to play basketball with three other kids in the third grade. You were in the sixth. Of course, besides you, your best friend would be there. He is also an OCD Bissli Grill dismantler.

h) At class parties you would arrive with great looking shoes because, really, that was all you had going for you.

i) You would go shopping with your mom for new clothes at least until but very likely including high school. And even with, though perhaps despite, your bourgeoning masculinity, she would swing open the dressing room curtain while you were in the middle of trying on pants to both ask how they fit in the crotch and show you the matching top she found “to complete the outfit.”

j) You bought Levi’s and GAP and Benetton clothing just because all the cool kids had them. It didn’t help.

And so, if you are a complete nerd, in which case your mom still buys your clothes for you and sex, if you have it, always seems neat, you might read this list and feel that it has somewhat exposed you. You might be thinking to yourself, “I dance ok. I have good sex. Hey, I even have hair gel!”

How did I know you were a nerdy kid?

Because you still are. And, trust me, everyone knows it.

You’re still a nerd.

But the good kind.

Like Al... ummmm… I wanna say Dore?

George "The Animal" Steel

By Ari Miller and Asi Gal

Walking down Allenby Street late on a weekend night is always an
interesting, if not annoying experience. This past Friday I was accosted by
two seemingly harmless Dutch travelers. A couple who appeared to be in their late 50's at least. They stopped me in English, my immediate thoughts were that they were lost and hoping for directions or, like most of the other
occupants of Tel Aviv's seedy underbelly, had confused me for a male
prostitute and were hoping to receive sexual favors in exchange for their recently exchanged shekels.

Sadly, seeing how the closest I have ever gotten to having sex with anything Dutch was the time I sexually molested a Dutch Hound, it was not a perverse financial transaction that they had in mind. All they wanted was directions to the beach, which I gave them, along with the additional recommendation regarding the best pizza place around that area.

After they left I contemplated our meeting (I like to contemplate. Some might say I'm a contemplateur). I wondered why, all of a sudden, I felt so nice. Eventually, I began thinking of this blog, and then I realized what it was. My blog is a window I offer people into my life. Specifically, about my life in Israel, which most often means showing the crap side of Israel (with the exception of Israeli radio attributing the Big Poppa song to the Pope on an earlier posting - look for it!). These directions that I just gave was completely different. I showed some tourists the way to something nice in Israel. And it was good to be reminded that there are nice things. Heck! I live here and, although sometimes I'm not sure why, I am aware that there are nice things.

With a new found hop to m step I headed down the road with a broad smile on my face and whistlin’ a tune to show me the way. I decided that my evening should not end with just one good deed. I would perform another, maybe three or four even. And then, as if placed before my god or god’s only son just for me, was a group of young women. They were young, most likely in high school. From afar I could tell that they were fat but it was only upon coming in closer that I could tell they also had horrible skin. There were three of them, drinking vodka – two of them from those cheap plastic cups you get when you buy a whole bottle at an all-night convenience store and the third, swigging from the bottle itself – all of them had cigarettes in hand. It was immediately obvious that I was put there at that place and at that time, perhaps giving reason to my having come to Israel in the first place, to help – dare I say it, to save – these three female youths.

As luck, or fate, would have it, I had recently been armed with a copy of god’s new testament that the Dutch couple had given me along with the promise that it would be a much more interesting read than the old testament, which I had never much cared for.

I approached them as I flipped through the book. I wanted to start with something that will grab them. Unfortunately, I am not one of those people that can naturally pinpoint a good quote without knowing much about the book in hand. I was pretty sure the main character is a preacher named Jesus or Chris. Overlooking the fact that if God wanted me to preach he would point me to a great line, I just chose one at random. My finger stopped on John 3:11, which I then repeated to them as I reached the trio.

The next thing I remember is waking up on the street corner. I stunk of the fat chick’s perfume and my mouth tasted like rotted lemons, which turned out to be the flavor of the crappy, crappy Vodka – a point easily deciphered since the empty bottle was stuck down my pants giving the impression that I have a huge penis.

Thinking of what I had been doing, who I had been with John 3:11 came back to me between the poundings in my head. It was my luck that the fatties had not stolen my copy of the New Testament, I pulled it out of the back of my pants - which answered the minor question of the uncomfortable tightness in my rear – and opened it up, quickly thumbing through for that quote. Hoping all the answers that I did seek lay within, I was in such a hurry that I just ripped out pages rather than turn them. And, with a river of individual pages of the word of god flowing around me I found it: “Verily, verily, I say unto thee, We speak that we do know, and testify that we have seen; and ye receive not our witness.”

“Fuck,” I thought to myself, “that's deep.” Much better than the "sorry seems to be the hardest word," that I originally meant to use - that John guy is much better than the Elton guy who I usually refer to. But, since I had yet to decipher what the former meant, I still had no idea why it led to what seemed to be an orgy of all the senses with three girls who, at best, resembled the three tenors.

And what was even less certain was, did I enjoy it?