Because I know you were worried...

My Creative Zen Micro has woken up from it's temper tantrum and has finally decided to work.
Attn Customer Service/Tech Support at Creative: Snap! You guys suck at life.
I am transferring 2578 tracks back to the damn machine as we speak, after having left it alone for two weeks in the hopes that even though Creative Tech Support failed me (because they never freaking listen), everything would repair itself in the end if I just left it alone.

Kind of like a pimple. What an unbelievably appropriate comparison for a Creative product: Creative Zen Micro-a pus-filled blemish which brightly stands out on the otherwise comparatively scarless face of technology.

I say 'comparatively scarless' because my craptacular Dell computer joins my Creative Zen Micro in the blemish category. However, the Dell is less of an annoyance because Dell, unlike Creative, has a reasonably competent Tech Support team.

Back to my own technological genius: (and by the way, those who really know me should be frightened by that last statement. Doesn't it keep you up at night that a support staff is as in/competent as me?)

Anyways, I managed to unfreeze the damn thing (and I'm still not really sure what I did differently this time than before), and am reloading everything, but only as a temporary solution to the current situation in which I am waiting to buy an iPod.

There are a few morals that can be derived from this saga:
a)Creative products, while often superior in theory to other comparable brands, are ultimately worthless, given the quality of their customer service/tech support or lack thereof.
b)iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiPPPPPPPPPPod.
c)Considering that she was the last one to handle it before it crashed, Na'ava is not allowed near any electronic equipment of mine for some time to come. Although she has called 'dibs' on the Zen for when I ultimately acquire my iPod. So, whatever. If she wishes to burden herself with what is at times effectively a paperweight, power to her.
c)iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiPPPPPPPPPPod.
d)iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiPPPPPPPPPPod.

~Fin~

Holocaust Education

Going with the dominant theme of the day...

I read an article on Haaretz.com last week (though I can't retrieve it at the moment) that talked about the formation of a Holocaust education program which focusses on the lives of North African (read: Moroccan) Jewry during the period of the Holocaust. It seems that Sephardi students, many of whom are of North African descent, can't seem to understand what the Holocaust has to do with them. They see it as "Askhenazi" (read: white) history to which they have no connection. They question why they even have to study it at all.

What a phenomenally stupid question.

My reply: For the same reason that White, Jewish, Indian, Hispanic, Asian, and Native American students who live in America have to study Black History Month. It is an integral and inseparable part of American history, which affects all American students to some extent, just as the history of the Holocaust affects all Jews regardless of origin or geographical orientation at the time.

Though I do commend the Israeli Board of Education for creating this new program, my recommendation is that they do not limit it to the Sephardi community; just like the history of the "Ashkenazi" Holocaust is a requirement for all Israeli schoolchildren, the history of the Sephardic experience would be a welcome addition to the curriculum.

Yom HaShoah

Today is Yom HaShoah VeHagvurah (Holocaust and Heroism Day), at least in Israel, if not elsewhere in the world. Actually, it technically began late yesterday afternoon. It is the law that all places of entertainment, that is, restaurants, cafes, bars, clubs, and most stores (i'm not sure about the last one) close on Erev Yom HaShoah (the night before) up until the following night. I discovered this when I went for waffles and we got there just as the place closed. Le sigh. The radio has been playing slow, soft, and sad folk-songs all day long.

Even though my usual practice for a 10:15 class is to wake up at 9 and rush in just in time for class, I got up half an hour earlier (also so that I could eat a full breakfast as opposed to the usual tea and muffin...thank god for post-holiday grocery shopping) to be on campus in time for a special event. I got up to the main building two minutes before-hand, and met up with my friend Shana, and we waited outside in the crowd.

At 10 am, the air-raid siren went off all over the State of Israel for two minutes, and time literally froze. Everyone stopped what they were doing and stood absolutely still. It was like being in a photograph. You know the scene from the Matrix when Neo and Morpheus are in the training program and Neo gets distracted by the woman in the red dress and she turns into an agent and Morpheus stops the program and everyone freezes? Minus Keanu Reeves, it was exactly like that. It was the most amazing thing I've ever seen.

I'm told that during the siren, all traffic stops, too, and people pull their cars over and stand outside them, even on the highway (which scares the hell out of me to even consider the logistics of that feat of driving. Note to self; if I immigrate, don't be caught out driving on days when they sound the siren).

But thirty seconds into the siren, a girl walked through the crowd, who did not part for her, and all you could hear was the siren and her heels clicking on the pavement. Noone looked up at her, and so even though she had on this defiant expression, I was the only one who noticed it, because everyone had their head bowed, and I kept my head up to watch. She was the only person moving; everyone else in the courtyard, Ashkenazi, Ethiopian, Sepharadi, Arab, and overseas student, was like a statue.

Now, I had been 'warned' last night by one of my roommates that Arab students are notorious for purposefully ignoring the siren, by walking, shouting, singing, playing music, or talking on their cellphones as if nothing is happening. Which, if you consider it, is violently rude. Like, put your political bullshit aside for two minutes out of the year. (Actually, six minutes. They will sound the siren twice more next week, on Remembrance Day. But seriously, six minutes. Take a valium if you have ADD and problems keeping still for that long. Otherwise, grow the hell up). first of all, I would like to point out that in no way was the walking girl symbolic of all Arabs who make up 20% of the population at Haifa University. The majority of them have a good head on their shoulders, and know what it means to respect another people's pain and memories. This is why I was not at all wary, like my roommate, who fretted about finding a quiet place where she could stand and not be bothered by the 'obnoxious arabs'. (Fun fact: Hebrew does not have a good word for 'obnoxious'. The closest I can find is docheh, which literally means 'repulsive', as in something you push away from you). .

The girl who refused to stop walking this morning (who was in fact Arab, by the way.) was exercising her right to refuse to observe a silence which is not mandatory by law, but rather by a code of etiquette which she clearly does not apply to herself. She was able to have her little temper tantrum against the 'fascist state' without disrupting anyone else's private moment. She did not push or shove anyone who stood quietly. She did not physically harm those standing, who clearly had a different worldview than her own. She was obnoxious, yes, but she did not put anyone who disagreed with her in danger.

While the total standstill that comes with the siren is one of the most powerful events that I have experienced, I believe that it is the walking Arab girl who symbolizes the moral of the outcomes of the Holocaust. In the State of Israel, where democracy and Judaism and Jewish History are so incredibly intertwined and so impossibly inseparable, and which so many claim is the direct outcome of the Holocaust, Jewish and Arab citizens alike have the unquestionable right, within a democratic framework, to choose to remember or to defiantly forget.

Prunes!

I've had a revelation and am freaking out:
Where does prune juice come from?
Think about it: Prunes are dried plums. Dried plums. Which means that there is no juice left in them. But you never hear of plum juice. Because there's only such a thing as prune juice.
But prunes have no juice! Where does this juice come from?

Clearly, there has been a massive cover up involving plums, prunes, and possibly the state of California. Because that's where I've decided that the prunes (and their not-so-innocuous juice) come from.

In other news: I have too much time on my hands. And I want a keeshond puppy. And an iPod. (in case you're trying to pick out a belated birthday present. hint. nudge. wink)

Israel during Pesach break? Partyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!
Cottage tomorrow!

-J

Dance, monkeys!

There's currently an unwritten competition among the staff of the cafes of Cafein, Aroma, and Elite to buy my love. Cafein is currently winning, because the guy looked at my punch card, which by all intents and purposes needed two more punches before I got the free coffee, and then he comped my coffee anyways. But the staff at Elite engage me in conversation and Avi from Aroma still goes down in history for the plate of whipped cream topped with chocolates (!!)
For those keeping track, the score is Elite: 5, Cafein: 10 (free stuff gets big points), and Aroma: 7006 (plate of whipped cream=7000 pts, chocolates=6 pts. I don't really like chocolate)

Spent the last two days "cleaning" house in Jerusalem where I will be spending the seders. The quotations around 'cleaning' show that I was not doing so of my own accord. But they asked nicely, and also feed me. And let me do my laundry at the house. And they don't have ants.
Weiner household=6000 points minus 80 for the cat. Me and the cat do not get along. Because I think he's stupid, and he thinks otherwise. Stupid cat.

Speaking of ants! The 60 or so that decided to take up residence in my room have met with liquid death. And after I bleached and cleaned my room, I cleaned the apartment, because I'm sick of living in a place where one can feasibly contract both cholera and diptheria by licking the floor. Which I wouldn't do, because it's so gross. (the floor, not the licking). Also, my roommates are never home, and so it usually goes like this: I clean, take out the trash, and wash the dishes. At the end of the week, my roommates come home for thirty minutes, and in that span of time, mess up the apartment beyond all measures of gross things. They then leave for the weekend, come back on monday or tuesday, and then have the gall to yell at me for not taking out the (read: their) trash or do the (read: their) dishes all weekend. So I've been on dish/trash strike for the last three weeks, and two nights ago, after bleach-deathing the ants, got so sick of the state of the apartment that I decided to bleach-death the cholera/diptheria, too.

That apartment is so gloriously clean. (The water from the floor was actually brown. I didn't know floors could get that dirty) And I just know that my roommates (or their gross 40 year old boyfriends who yes: have a key and no: I am not okay with that) are going to come home and mess it up but I NO LONGER CARE: I'm leaving at the end of July, and I will not eat in that kitchen any more and I left a threatening little note in Hebrew and English on the fridge to make my position clear.

Whatever. I'll get sick of the inevitable mess in three days and clean again.

But if I come home thursday and find the kitchen in an unlivable state, I'm getting the locks changed and gross-40-yr-old boyfriend can sleep outside on the porch.

Schedule of Passover Events!
Wednesday: Seder!
Thursday: Sleep (?)
Friday: Artist's Market in Tel Aviv
Saturday: Beach!
Sunday: Camping or visit family on Kibbutz. Which I hope works out. Because I? Don't camp.
Monday:Ibid.
Tuesday:Ibid.
Wednesday: Cottage in the Galilee! (for the hebrew speakers, a צימר)
Thursday: Ibid.
Friday: Reunion with camp Ramah people in Tel Aviv (?)
Saturday: Beach!
Sunday: Back to class.

חג שמח וכשר!
-J

Akhuy lahalo, wa mesh metjawez...

The title reads, in the Akko/Haifa dialect of Spoken Arabic: My brother is alone, and unmarried.
These are the kinds of things that I am learning to say in Spoken Arabic class. Because not only are they pertinent to real-life occurrences (it just so happens that my brother is, in fact, alone and unmarried), but they're great conversation starters. How many people can say that in four languages?

Yeah, you're jealous.

My homework, which is to construct paragraphs using our vocabulary, consists of paragraphs such as the following: (keeping in mind that today's lesson was on verb negation, and therefore, our homework paragraphs have to reflect that.)

"Today I go to the university, but yesterday was Saturday and I did not go to the lesson. I painted the house of my grandfather but the day after tomorrow I will not swim in the pool. My brother is alone and unmarried but he likes women. My sister likes flowers, but she does not like the flower from her boyfriend"

It's kind of like I snort lines of coke and then am all "time to do Arabic homework!"

Sweet. Sweet.

It's cold and rainy, cutting out beach plans for the week. Instead, I will stay at home and compose cracked-out passages in Arabic, stalk people on facebook.com, catch up on North American tv recaps on televisionwithoutpity.com, and only venture out to the occasional bar or toilet-paper-purchasing expedition. In that order. Note that "going to class" goes unmentioned. Not that I'm hinting at anything.

I turned 21 this Sunday (thank you, thank you) which means...absolutely nothing, except that I'm 21 years older than I was 21 years ago. I have been able to drive for 5 years, gamble for 3 years, and drink (legally) for 2 years (in Canada. 3 in Israel. Which is in no small part of why I am a Zionist). It is only the United States which has come up with the brilliant idea of limiting legal alcohol to the older half of it's university population while the younger, 18-20 year old half (who are clearly more resistant to temptation. Clearly) is expected to drink orange juice. For three years. Riiiiiiiiiiight. Israel and Canada have a better approach to the whole thing: If a) you're going to allow them to use guns which are meant to shoot (i.e: kill/maim/wound/permanently disfigure) human beings, you ought to allow them to drink when they're off-duty. And b) if you're going to toss them into an institution away from their parents/legal guardians, you don't seriously expect them to adhere to a 21 limit for three years out of the college experience. Hell no! Part of the "college experience" (even though, FYI, I managed to get into a university, which makes me better than you) is coming home completely trashed and partially disrobed at three in the morning, vomiting on your roommates brand-new-and-wildly-expensive-strappy-sandals in the front hall, and waking up to discover that pictures of the Mathlete team doing body shots off of your questionably-dressed-but-entirely-passed-out-midriff are circulating the psychology department's listserve, eliminating any chances you had of being selected for that thesis program. And knowing that you did it all legally (or at least legal under the liquor laws of your particular province. The jury is still out on the "public nudity" clause) makes it worth the heartache you will cause your poor mother, who fervently awaits your call. Alone. In the dark. With the heat shut off. Because they do that. It's a mother thing. It's like in their DNA or something

For those who care, my birthday was a weekend of fun events. Normal bar on Friday, sushi (!) and nargilah bar on Saturday, and shipudim (like shishkabob, but no vegetables and only the meat. So I guess like skewers) with the family on Sunday. Flowers, Sfat candles, beaded necklaces aside, the best present I got was from my parents: Makeup, jewelry, and money. They clearly know what I like. Thanks, and keep it coming!

So really, the only comment I have to make on turning 21 is this little song that I heard in a store in a Haifa mall, which disturbed me to no end and yet is stuck in my head. And it should be mentioned that the words I've written below are the only lyrics which appear in the song.

They only want you when you're seventeen

When you're twenty-one

You're no fun

They take a Polaroid and let you go

Say "they'll let you know"

So come on

(Repeat seven times to the beat of poorly mixed techno music. If you really want to reflect the pitch of the singer accurately, smoke heavily for 45 years. Extra points for smoking out of your tracheotomy catheter)

We only want you when you're seventeen

When you're twenty-one

You're no fun

At which point I left the dressing room, and my conversation with the saleswoman went something like this:

Me: "I'm sorry, but is that the Date Rape song, or the Statutory Rape song? I get them confused"
Her: "I think it's about models..."
Me: "So....the Statutory Rape song?"

PS: I googled it, and it seems that this song is called "Seventeen" by Ladytron.
PPS: Who cares?
PPPS: I can't even begin to describe how much more fun I am at twenty-one than I was at seventeen