Friday, June 30, 2006

U...S..............A?

i thought this entertaining. i don't agree with the following statements. i have never found a reason to be proud of American football. i'd rather crochet.



For Immediate Release -Office of the Press Secretary -June 22, 2006 -5:03 P.M. (EST)

WORLD CUP 2006: PRESIDENT'S STATEMENT ON AMERICA'S ELIMINATION FROM THAT BORING "KICKBALL FOR EUROFAGS" THING
Statement by the President

THE PRESIDENT: Good afternoon. Please be seated. I've just been briefed on a developing situation in Germany, where I'm told millions of America-haters from across the planet are celebrating the fact that U.S. athletes just got their asses handed to them by a bunch of dudes from Ghanastan – in something called the "World Cup." And while I still don't understand what foreign athletes were doing challenging Americans in a "World" anything, I wanted to take a minute to shore up the fragile, eggshell-thin egos of America's team sports fanatics.

Now obviously, I'm a real big sports fan myself. 60% of the country wouldn't wanna shotgun a brew with me if I wasn't. I owned the Texas Rangers way back when, and it was there that I warmed up my divinely inspired MBA-Presidenting skills: trading Sammy Sosa just before his near record home run season, regularly plunging Jose Conseco's hunky bubble butt with needles full of steroids, and speaking in Mexicanese with the cut-rate illegal grounds crew from south of the Rio Grande.

I also love football, too. Real Man Football, with pads and helmets and giant pile-ups of sweaty, grunting dudes in skin-tight lycra knickers. Yes, whether it's doing the coin toss at the Army/Navy game, or just kicking back in the White House residence with a big bowl of Mr. Salty pretzels and a pitcher of (shhhhhhh!) Cuervoritas, I've got me a real big love for all the great American sports, which are sublime contests of grotesque, ultra-violent action, all sliced into bite-sized chunks that can be wrapped in thunderous advertisements.

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Wimp & Chimp

But as for this "soccer" stuff, well, I won't be convinced that a sport invented in the olden days by some sheep-humping Frenglishman kicking around an old boot can hold a candle to our brand of athletics, which is all about cheating fair and square. I mean, soccer doesn't got any loud, blaring Jumbotrons; everybody is busy running around not scoring, and man oh man, those knee-high socks are for total cocktards. So as far as I care, all them countries getting a self-esteem boost by beating the US can go ahead and get their mangled Frenglishman toothers all tangled up in my poohole hair, y'hear?

And as for the third world: you might be good at soccer, but how about you have a go at playing my favorite international tournament: THE WORLD CUP OF THE BIGGEST, MOST EXPENSIVE MILITARY IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD. Wonder who wins THAT, fuckers.

I mean, there's a reason that Americans 12 years old and up have been dismissing soccer as a weird, kind of embarrassing non-sport for years, which is why today I've decided to go ahead and make it official:

NOW, THEREFORE, I, GEORGE W. BUSH, President of the United States of America, on this day, June 22, of the year of America's Lord and Savior Jesus H. Christ, 2006, do hereby declare soccer to be nothing more than "KICKBALL FOR EUROFAGS", to henceforth no longer be recognized by any American citizen other than minivan-driving, brat-toting "security moms" who vote party-line GOP for fear of being gang-raped by A-rabs. Furthermore, I do formally expunge the last two weeks of soccer from sports history, especially as pertains to America's humiliating failure to totally kick foreigner ass in any events involving the "World Cup," "the Czech Republic," and/or "Ghana."

Finally, should a World Cup referee who, during the Italy v. U.S. game, unjustly issued two red cards in obvious criticism of American foreign policy, be found dead by heart attack or point blank bullet wound from a Secret Service issue Glock 9, it will be deemed accidental and no further investigations shall commence.

Thank you.

Sunday, June 25, 2006

Mamo!!!

Recently I have found my life to be so predictable, that there isn't much to write about. I'm sitting here with a confused look on my face. My life, has become predictable? Yikes.

Yesterday I finally got bitten by the World Cup bug, and enjoyed a game and a half, which is extremely good for me, since I only enjoy watching amateur boxing and a light amount of college basketball. Low and behold, lightly past halftime.. Between Germany and Sweden, the camera man does a slow-mo shot of the German player with the ribcage tattoo, lifting up his shirt and wiping his face. Except he doesn't show the players face, just his sweaty torso for every woman sitting on a sweaty, leather couch to oogle over. The fact of the matter is: an ambitious gentleman with extremely sporty genes sweatily running over mowed grass, toes pointed better than a class A ballerina.. Well, that's something to admire. If all gentlemen exuded such determination and fierceness- one would have to lock the Ginrod in a steel cage and feed her carrots

I've thought lately to write my mother a letter. One of those "Dear Mom, I miss ______" letters and summed up by the whole "If I was a bad kid, I am really really sorry, It's only know I realized how hardcore of a lady you were, and if I could endow my children with all that you had with us, they would be extremely fortunate mini-ginrods.

The following would be the top ten mentioned:

  • Dear mom, I secretly enjoyed getting acute bronchitis as a child because I enjoyed the attention of you visiting my room every few hours at night to rub vicks on my back and chest.
  • Dear mom, I'm sorry I stole 50 cents out of your purse everyday after school in your classroom to buy a coke, that you forbade us to drink (only on Fridays). We could have donated that to the salvation army and bought a poor child a teddy bear for a cold winters night.
  • I do regret I never let you teach me Tagalog and Spanish
  • Thanks for letting me be a cheerleader, even though you thought it pretentious and lame, it helped me realize I didn't want to be pretentious and lame. So I never became Pretentious and lame.
  • Thanks for making me do ballet. I tend to imitate the moves I learned in the present when I become nervous in front of strangers.
  • No thanks to you letting me get a perm when I begged for one. It was one of my biggest fashion no no's.
  • Thanks to you not kicking me out of the house when I shaved my head so I could be part of small revolutions. I now appreciate long hair. And prefer larger revolutions.
  • I find it rather cool you'll dance in the kitchen to hip hop with Bryan and I. I know we got our booty shaking genes from you.
  • I wish I lived at home so you could ask me to mow the lawn, and I could make Bry do it, while I sat on a tree branch and sang NKOTB songs at the top of my lungs.
  • Thanks for swinging me the extra bucks to buy my 1976 Vespa 90. I was way cool for a little bit.

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Vitamin Idiocra-C

Daylight didn't disperse until almost 20:00 today. I don't remember the days being so long and bright, even in S.E Asia.


On my way home from my Shiurim this evening, I came upon a group of French women taking pictures of their fellow homegirl in front of a jeep decorated with pink and metallic bows. It was obvious this was their last night of their friend being single as they oooh'd and ahhh'd with every picture. As I strolled by, one of the girls asked if I could take their group picture. I paused as they huddled together in contented happiness. As I walked off with my sentimental grin, I heard them oooh'ing and ahhh'ing at the group photo I just took. I clicked my tongue at the idiocracy of it: Oh Ginrod!! widowed girlfriend, looking into the digital lenses of someone else's fortune.

Ever since the comments of the girl last week (see last blog), I've been turning the ladle of thought in my mind of the idiocracy of Susi in Israel. I'm a person that seeks constantly to define myself, to know what I stand for so I don't fall for anything. To come to understand myself as a whole so I don't surprise myself further down the line. I purge my thoughts into a bowl and stew it around until I make sense of it all. Could it be i'm a Zionist? Very well so. But if I just came to know Israel in the last couple years, do I deserve the right to assume I belong to Israel just like every other person that was born to belong here?

Every month when I was a child, the Philipino community in Tulsa would have a potluck gathering. It was quite the custom to teach the young girls traditional Philipino dances such as the E-tik e-tik and to participate in group dances ...particularly Tinikling. The dance consists of two people hitting parallel bamboo poles on the ground, raising them, then hitting the poles against each other in the air with a rhythm. Meanwhile, at least one dancer hops over and around the clashing poles, imitating the tikling bird dodging bamboo rice traps set by farmers.


Like Philipino stick fighting in the backyard of our house, it was normal for Bry and I to have a concept of this dance at an early age, as young adults- we got hip hop with our moves, never catching our feet in the bamboo poles.

White people cannot do the Tinikling dance. They break their ankles.

During these dances at our Philipino potlucks, we would sit cross legged, watching the people sway in and out of the poles. After they completed their rounds, someone else would jump up to replace them. I remember one of my aunties telling me with a scandelous smirk: "Soooosi!! grab dat white mahn over der. Tell him to dance!!" . Inevitably the white man would attempt to dance in between the poles- relegating any graceful movement the Philipino women cast into the dance.

We'd watch the foreign man..tripping over the poles, breaking his white man sweat, squeaking like a trapped mouse. We would calmly sit there, big smiles across our face, encouraging him. "White man dance WHITe man DAnce ahahaha" our brains would scream. We calmly sat there. White people cannot do the Tinikling dance. They break their ankles.

Am I the white man attempting to do the Tinikling dance here in Israel?? I thought to myself today. Could the girl from last week be right?? Can I become something I wasn't born into? Do I have the right to not limit my attachment to Israel in the death of an IDF soldier, but also in a spiritual and passionate way? Can I manage to raise my future family in a way that gives them a positive identity? Or will I always be the awkward white man nervously hopping through bamboo poles of Judaism, eventually getting some of the motions down but never having the grace of the ones that had the dance in their blood?

Then I remember: yes yes i've seen white girls shake their rump like soul was genetically programmed into it. I've seen white men play the blues. Eminem made his mark (did I just write that??). Perhaps I was never the white man nervously dancing, waiting to break his ankle. Maybe I am the white man who could play the blues all along. I suppose I should stop focusing on the idiocracy of it all, and keep the smug smirk on my face. We have no idea what red carpet is being laid out for us, and usually it's only when we glance at the path of memories behind us that all the puzzle pieces seem to fit. It's not an idiocracy at all, it's simply the red carpet of the Ginrod life. Ain't it now??

Sunday, June 18, 2006

First things first.

In Oklahoma, Avocadoes were a delicacy. I don't think I am exaggeratting when I say that one Avocado was $1.50. In Thailand, Guacamole was unheard of, except for the rare occasions that we'd find an avocado in a market near the border of Burma. Here in Tel Aviv, Avocadoes are as common as the alley cats with one eye.

I hope one can understand my angst when I realize the Avocado section in the grocery store is dwindling. "Is there an avocado season??!" I frantically inquire. No one can answer me. Along with the questions of the cosmos, will I ever afford a car, can one find peace through the Tao Te Ching?... the answer to whether or not we are slipping out of Avocado season is one I am fearful of finding the answer to.

My past weekend was quite satisfying. Two weeks ago I had the epiphany how much has changed in only the last few months of living on my own, away from Tsiki's family. Coming to terms with my own independence in Israel was terrifying. To my surprise and my relief- I have found a warm circle of friends who are a mad and lovely package and they don't wear tu tu's.

Last Friday, I spoke once again to a group of American Jews who are here to learn more about and support various organizations in Israel. I choose to speak for the Girlfriends of Fallen Soldiers, because I am the only American girlfriend in the group- I feel I can give something to my fellow Americans and present Israel in a way that they can best understand. Speaking for the Amuta is the most emotionally tough thing I choose to do every couple months. It is also one of the most fulfilling.

As I sat down with fellow girlfriends in the same predicament I am suddenly questioned by one of the girls. "Can I be honest??" one of the girls says"...Seems to me like your not able to let go of your past, and you're staying in Israel as a result" she says. "how can you even afford to move here? Support yourself?, are u even dating...??" The barrage of questions were too quick to get defensive about. "You need to travel" she continues, "leave this place, maybe you won't now.. but I bet it's a phase and you'll eventually leave..".

Ouch.

It was a challenge enough to sit at a table for two hours with girls from the same predicament. It was even more offensive to realize that this particular woman offered no "support". The only answer I could offer her was that I have traveled the last 5 years of my life, I am very proud to reach the point in my life where I can have structure, accept religion, and dance on tables when i'm sauced up from the tequila shots that "I" paid for with my "real" job. I think it was to her dismay when I responded that yes, I have dated, and I can't predict my future, so i'll just accept her "honest" opinion and hope she lives by her own as well. I quickly left with one of the other girlfriends and we Politic'd at another bar down the road. I showered when I returned to the hotel to rinse myself of her attitude.

Whereas one point I thought these girls would be the only people that would understand me. I find myself relieved to run into the arms of my "other" friends. I am eternally grateful for those who have chosen to come to know me without judgement and accept my weaknesses. I know it's made me a better person. Believe it or not, I am quite shocked by this epiphany. They may never understand what it's like to have your bowl emptied when it was so full. But I get the feeling they are doing the best the can.

I'm not so good at assuming I know what will happen this time next year, and most of the time- I am not too worried about it. I have become better at having my today's and my tomorrows. And if I can have my todays everyday and my tomorrow's every other day, I don't foresee that bowl tipping anytime soon. Those todays and tomorrow's will be around for quite some time. And i'm not mad at them. Even if there is a possibility Avocadoes are going out of season. Please G-D.

But I do foresee a pretty happening party in about two weeks. So do be prepared.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

How do they do it?..Like That

There's a small alley way on the way to Diesengoff street by my home. The home I share with my ever tolerant irish friend. In that small alley way, there is a space where a P200 Vespa, coated with dust and Kitty feces rests it's handlebars against the cement wall.

When I was 17, I purchased an original small frame Vespa 90, two years later, I kitted her out with a 135cc Italian Pollini Kit. Three months later, I bought special Italian racing tires for my orange beauty. Two years later, I left for Peace Corps Thailand and refused to sell it. My Vespa, was my Ginrod-ness.

I just sold her, I know she's being molested by some Texan in Austin. Maybe she will make it to the South by Southwest Music Festival next year.

In Tulsa Oklahoma, no Scooter enthuisiast would ever allow a P200 to retire so early. Especially with the Gas prices at its all time high.

I am not in Tulsa anymore.

As I walk up Ben Gurion Street.. towards the Meditterranean- I am resting my head on my friends shoulder. I am feeling vacant and tormented, and he's probably feeling constipated and hungry. We stroll past a makeshit playground, 15 feet by 20 where secular little boy is playing on the play horse and looks at me and he reminds me of Tsiki -same eyes and hair color. My heart loops and I hold his glare for a measily 2 seconds and pretend I never saw it.

In the moments of feeling a bit tormented. With your co-pilot assuring you that it's all quite beautiful, you almost fail to realize you're sitting upon a rock, feeling the Meditterranean to the West and spoiling your soul with the beats of 20 South Americans palming and beating their drums on the beach in front of you.

Earlier in my day, I got the same accusing question I can never hide from from one of my co-workers- who isi am sure is a pretty splendid person: "Tell me again, why you would EVER want to be Jewish?!?!"? ....I turned up my Pandora radio station of Louie Armstrong and pretended to Walz with an imaginary friend. "This is the i can't hear you dance for such a loaded question dance!!" I lighheartedly reciprocated.

To be honest, I secretly wanted to plant my skirted ass on his desk and create a confrontation like this:
Me: So your planning your wedding soon ey?
Him: Yeah.....
Me: you got a papa?
Him: yeah
Me: If you believe in marriage, you believe in love, love is not a classified emotion pyschologically speaking, therefore, it is in the realm of what we cannot define. That same realm is G-d.
Him: what's your point??
Me: Take away all you have right now, the planning and the guarantee of everlasting love , take away your Dad, take away the country that defines you, and your job- a little of your past and a lot of your future.... get most of it back within a year with a good tan and then tell me there is no G-d and no reason to become Jewish.
Me: if you do that. I'll leave Israel and i'll do marketing for the Mormons in Utah and not ask questions.

I think my point is: I am pretty unimpressed with people questioning what I am doing and why I am doing it. How do THEY do it? How to they decorate their cubicles and go to bed at ten and simply believe that is fulfilling? How do they not think about their next move and if they are fulfilling their destiny and if they should attempt to live a life saturated with spirituality, G-D, or the next new celebrity thing?

Is starting a small revolution with mangoes and Tu tu's really that off??

xx

Monday, June 12, 2006

Gentile Disease

Learning the details of keeping Kosher is intellectually banal. I am pretty aware of what I am not supposed to do, but not so much aware of what I should do in detail. Every week, my tutor is slowly pointing out new ways the Jewish woman can take out the joy of meal preparation and make it a military effort. Please do not misunderstand me, this by no means insinuates I am turned off by conversion, but this does insinuate I am learning a level of Kashrut that I can't be sure my religious friends are even aware of.

A couple weeks ago, we entered into the discussion of how not to drink wine with a Gentile (non-jew), for it may lead to intermarriage (g-d forbid). This week we discussed in detail how to find mites in food and how to not have to many dinners with non-jews because you may run the risk of un-kosherizing your kitchen and ....intermarriage (G-d forbid). I finally put my hand down. "Listen (name), I hope you understand that I am completely ready to keep the laws expected of me upon conversion. But this whole Gentile topic is really hurting my ego. You're making me feel like a Disease."

So in the spirit of the Gentile Disease, I have defined the following:

The Gentile disease (also known as Shiks-yndrome, Goi-tercile) is not considered to be due to infection, although micro-historical data may play a role, and cannot be spread from person to person.

Social Significance of the Gentile Disease
The identification of Gentiles as a disease, rather than as simply a variation of human structure or function, can have significant social or spiritual implications. The controversial recognitions as diseases of Shiks-syndrome, also known as the "non Jewish women" has had a number of positive and negative effects on the financial, spiritual, and matriarchal responsibilities of the Jewish man, as well as on the individuals themselves. The social implication of the Gentile as a disease could be profound, though this classification is not yet widespread.

The Gentile condition may be considered to be a disease in some cultures or eras but not in others. Gentiles is a condition considered to be diseases in the elitist communities in Ranaana and Jerusalem today, but were not so-considered aeons ago during the time of Ruth and King David. Gentile Syndrome is not prominant in some other countries and sectors where the Jewish population is stable and thriving.

Gentiles are a group of afflicted individuals who were historically shunned due to the fear of them tempting the Jewish people from their religion and popping the bubble most religious Jewish persons tend to find comfort in. The term "Gentile" still evokes social stigma. Fear of exposure to the disease can still be a widespread social phenomena, though not all Gentiles evoke extreme social stigma.

Rules to keep in mind if you a are experiences the symptons of a Gentile in your life:

do NOT mix wine when you have the Gentile disease. It may lead to intermarriage.

do not eat with a gentile. it may lead to intermarriage.

if you have a gentile in your life, hold your breath for ten minutes. because you are a "chosen" person. You should be able to quiet the thoughts of the gentile and not pass out.

if the above effort did not succeed. do NOT tell your mother you have been fornicating with a Gentile. You won't get your monthly allowance.

Treat the Gentile symptons with rubbing alcohol. Although it might be as painful as your brit.

Do not go out with a Gentile in humid weather. The gentile may rub off on you and you'll be a bad Jew.

ok, i am out of steam.

xoxo