mashdownbabylon

Nuclear Sound Affects

 
During the late 1970s, I can't remember how many times my siblings and I would hear a song on the radio--most often English-language pop and disco--and try to sing along. We'd mimic the lyrics, switching back and forth between English and Hebrew as we unsuccessfully attempted to master particularly difficult American-sounding turns of phrase. Boney M's 1978 mega-hit "Rasputin," and Earth, Wind and Fire's 1979 smash "Boogie Wonderland" were particular sources of amusement, as friends and family would struggle to properly enunciate "R" and "W," sounding, in the case of "Vonderland," like Israeli caricatures of Bela Lugosi.

To read the rest of my review of Soul Messages From Dimona, click here.

'Deserteur'

Two weeks ago, France 24 produced a larger television piece on the recent advert attempting to 'shame' Israelis who do not do their military service. Based on the recent forum on the Observers site, I discuss my decision, 23 years ago, to not do my military service. Jennifer shot the original interview.

The nicest part about this experience was hearing about it first via my uncle Avi in Tel Aviv, who saw it on France 24 at home, and then telephoned my parents about it, who in turn called me. I didn't get a chance to see the full piece until last week, when Roi Ben-Yehuda let me know it had been posted online.

Note the use of the word 'deserter' in the English broadcast of the interview. In French, the original term, 'deserteur'  is also used to describe people who choose not to do military service as an act of conscience. It doesn't consistently translate as 'to leave one's post', though that surplus is most definitely there.

Click here to watch the English version. The French edition is worth a gander, too.

Family Album

My mother encouraged me to appreciate coffee

My father taught me to drink tea

My wife is responsible for the cookies

Make That Two

It's the second anniversary of our wedding. Los Angeles, 27/12/05.

The Mirror Stage

You know you're starting to feel old when, in the space of one month, three films about three dead musicians hit the theaters, and you can still remember when their very first records came out. Such was the case when, watching the previews before the new Anton Corbijn biopic about Joy Division frontman Ian Curtis, I saw plugs for new feature films about The Clash's Joe Strummer and Nirvana's Kurt Cobain.

Two down, one to go, so far, Control is the winner. Casting Ian Curtis as the unstable, miserable genius that he was, the black and white feature debut by the famous Dutch photographer has a truly literary feel to it, eschewing Curtis' star quality for an up-close study of a talented young man totally falling apart. Julien Temple's homage to Strummer, The Future is Unwritten is Control's polar opposite.

A documentary portrait of an equally brilliant middle aged rock star burdened with enormous regrets, Future is best summed up in the highly critical words of my wife, who published her own terrific take on the film last night. Check it out. If you haven't read the Bionic Farmer blog yet, this is the perfect introduction.

Time Traveler

German was the last thing I expected to hear that morning. But, as I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, I could hear my grandmother screaming, "Raus, Nazis, raus." I didn't know what to think. I imagined that I'd been dreaming, and tried to go back to sleep. But my grandmother wouldn't stop. She was absolutely terrified. Nervous, I looked at my watch. It was only six AM. Finally, I decided to get out of bed and see what was going on. "Yoel," Safta announced as I reached the bottom of the staircase, "Arafat is hiding in the bushes outside. He's wearing an SS uniform, and has a couple of German shepherds with him."

While I was only nine at the time, I was old enough to know that there was something terribly wrong. "Safta, doesn't Arafat live in Beirut?" I  remember asking her.  "No, mottek, he's the head of the Gestapo, here in Israel," she replied. I started to tremble. I'd begun reading newspapers, and knew that Arafat was leading the Palestinians next door in Lebanon's civil war. "Safta, do you think you could call Abba in London and ask him what we should do?" I asked. "No," she said sternly. "We shouldn't use the phone right now. It would be a dead giveaway. Just go up to your room, lower the shutters, and be quiet."

Sitting behind my closed door, for the next two weeks, the only sound I could hear was that of my eighty- four year old grandmother's mind blasting apart. Speaking to herself incessantly, in Hebrew, German, and sometimes even Arabic, at varying volumes, she'd recount imaginary reports she claimed to have heard on army radio about how the Gestapo had finally returned to Palestine (not Israel) from Lebanon, with the sole purpose of kidnapping Jewish children. Unable to distinguish between the mandate period and independence, it was the first time I'd ever heard the Palestinians described as though they were Nazis.

Numerology

This week, we celebrated our fourth anniversary. Not pictured: Jennifer stomping on the glass first.

A Different Kind of Closet

In Walk on Water’s closing scene, we find Eyal walking up to a crib to care for a crying baby, in a house, which, as the camera traces his movements, is one he now shares on a kibbutz with Pia, his new German wife. Axel, however, is never very far away. Sitting down at his laptop with a cup of hot tea after pacifying his newborn child, blanket draped over his shoulders, a domesticated Eyal composes an email to Axel, in which he tells his brother-in-law of a fantasy he had about the two of them defying gravity by walking together across the Sea of Galilee.

Obviously, whatever feelings Eyal held for Axel have not only not gone away, but, more significantly have become a subject of acknowledgement, perhaps even dialogue, between the two men. As welcome as the remarkable changes the former Mossad agent has made to his life appear to certainly be, he is still clearly closeted. Settling down with the blonde haired and blue-eyed granddaughter of a Nazi on a kibbutz may represent a dramatic step forward. Nevertheless, it is Eyal’s unrequited desire for Pia’s brother that represents a yearning for something even greater.

Ideologically speaking, Walk on Water is anything but simple. Could Eyal’s inability to fully come out be a sexual metaphor for a future peace between Palestinians and Israelis that’s correspondingly incomplete? A two state as opposed to a one state solution, where Jews may have made their peace with Europe but not, quite fully, with the Palestinians? Fox is appropriately unclear, as his message should be. Nevertheless, sexual liberation, of the kind that Walk on Water embraces, has profound political corollaries that lie far beyond the liberation of desire.

-From IvU, Chapter 7

Revolutionary Posturing

Every time we pass by the Alexander Rodchenko reproduction in our hallway (to Jennifer's left), it makes us want to dye our hair red and hold our heads up high.

Introducing Raster

This is Raster. He's a three-year old miniature schnauzer. Abandoned by his owners, I found him in a cage at our dog groomers' office last May. We adopted him not long thereafter.

Three weeks ago, Raster started licking his left paw on a more-than-regular basis. As the days progressed, he'd attack a particular, nondescript spot with increasing intensity.

Eventually, Jennifer and I became concerned, and decided to take Raster to the vet, where, after shaving his paw, the doctor discovered two deep, highly infected holes.

"It looks like your dog was bitten by a snake," the veterinarian concluded. "Don't you live in the city?" he asked, scratching his head.

Relieved that we finally knew what had happened to the little guy, Jennifer and I both sighed and replied "Yes," giggling in response to the totally unexpected diagnosis.

"Bernal Heights, to be precise," I told our physician. "From what we understand, there are snakes crawling throughout the neighborhood."

Exploring Our Erogenous Zones

The Schalits have no immediate plans to move to Marin.

Desktop Rockers Be Gone

Can you remember what its like to just hang out and listen to music? Not at your desk, in your car, or on your iPod, but on the couch, on a weekend afternoon, with a friend, or a lover.

Imagine playing records back to back, for several hours, as your ears drift in and out of changes in albums, interspersed by comments about what you're listening to, and long, deep yawns.

So we spent our Saturday, comfortably nestled in the living room of a sleepy vacation rental near the Pacific ocean, three hours north of San Francisco. No hippies, all reggae.

Utopia, UK

“Okay now,” Miss Kennedy finally said, “I want you all to be quiet and begin introducing yourselves, starting with the front row.” A short, fat boy wearing a beige cashmere sweater, with a head of thick, black, comb-backed hair began. “My name is Ahmed,” he said in nearly flawless English, smiling. “I just moved here from Saudi Arabia.” Next up was the dark, pretty girl to his right. “My name is Farnaz,” she said. “And where are you from?” Miss Kennedy asked. “Iran,” Farnaz replied. “I just moved here too.”

And so, based on my survey of how many Middle Eastern–looking kids were in the room, it was clear that Miss Kennedy—a young, blonde and blue eyed teacher married to an American serviceman stationed in London — wanted us all to confess our countries of origin. Following Farnaz was a boy from Syria, followed by an Iraqi, another Iranian, a kid from Lebanon, a girl from Libya and finally, me. “Joel,” Miss Kennedy asked, staring at my nametag, “do you want to introduce yourself?”

An enormous silence fell over the room. I was terrified. I just could not issue a reply. Miss Kennedy stared at me with a concerned look on her face. “What’s the matter Joel,” she asked. “Has the cat got your tongue?” My classmates began to giggle. Finally, seeing fifteen curious faces staring intently at me, waiting for me to say something, I finally blustered “Hi, my name is Joel. I’m from Israel. Can I go to the bathroom, please?”

In retrospect, there was absolutely no reason to be nervous. None of us was older than eleven, and besides, no matter what kind of ideology you inculcate children with, as I discovered that year in London, it appeared as though all vestiges of the Middle East conflict seem to disappear through the classroom collaborations and the friendships we inevitably fell into.

- From my editor's column, Tikkun, September/October edition, 2005

The C in Schalit

Is it SH or SCH? Covering the ongoing case of captured Israeli soldier Gilad Schalit (pictured above) in today's New York Times, Isabel Kershner drops the C most commonly used in the spelling of his surname. As I kindly responded to a journalist friend who'd interviewed me last April (and had mispelled my last name in the same way in a recently published article), in Hebrew, there is no C in SCHALIT.

The SH sound is made by the letter SHIN. The C is a culturally Ashkenazi (specifically German) addition to the name's spelling.  A non-standard Hebrew surname ( derived from the word shlita, or ruler,) the C is frequently added to Schalit when it is written in the Latin alphabet. Thus, one may determine from this where the family that uses the name originally came from: central or eastern Europe.

According to my father, the Schalit side of Gilad's family is from Poland. Though he initially suspected that the name was adopted in Israel, apparently Schalit's uncle told Elie that the family name precedes immigration. Our family has also called itself Schalit for as long as anyone remembers. Though we originally hail from Italy, records show that our surname has almost always indulged the Ashkenazi C.

I, for one, have always felt plagued by the name. Not because I don't like it, but because of how often it's mispronounced by Americans. Frequently prone to enunciating it phonetically, (for example, SHALL-IT instead of SHAH-LEET) the one benefit of its media repetition (unfortunately, due to the Gilad Schalit case) has been that, on CNN and the BBC, reporters have almost always pronounced it the way Israelis do.

So, living in the US, for the first time, when I meet new people, they now tend to say my last name the right way. And, sadly, nearly always ask me if I am indeed related to the missing Israeli soldier. The answer, as I am wont to say, is no, but that our shared surname brings his family's pain much closer to home. Big up to the Galil Schalits, with the hope that their son will be returned soon.

 

Meet the Schalits

Every time we go to LA, we always end up at a party. Last weekend was no exception. Barely over my jetlag, we drove down last Friday to celebrate father's day with Jennifer's family.

Though I wish I'd been awake enough to snap a shot, the picture above, taken at a family event last year, is a reasonable substitute. The newlyweds, at Jennifer's brother's house in Atwater Village.

Uncomfortably Numb

It was early in the morning when the news of the suicide bombing in Hadera came in. A lone shahid had detonated himself in the open air market in town. Four people were listed as immediate casualties, with the death toll finally topping six two weeks later. I wondered if my parents could hear it from the confines of their house nearby. I imagined their living room windows shaking, reverbrations from the explosion piercing the treble-like clang of traffic on the coastal highway, much like how the sonic boom of a fighter plane infiltrates the physical structure of everything underneath it with its overwhelming, sub-bass frequencies.

It was an oddly fitting end to a work trip where politics was somehow always broadcasting itself from  the margins, like the perpetual ambient din of a street lamp at night, or the hum of an office computer that no one ever turns off. Such as when, on our first trip to Jerusalem together, driving along highway six, we saw the separation wall for the first time near Baka al Garbiyeh, and frankly, were not the least bit moved by it. For all of the remarkable injustice and stupidity  that this barrier clearly symbolized to us, we took notice of it, discussed its immorality, and drove on to our destination. 

-Diary fragment, November 2005

Animal Liberation

Judy considers buying a copy of Final Scratch. In my studio, May '07.

When It Rains, It Pours

This time, it was expected. After suffering a stroke ten days ago, Jennifer's maternal grandmother, Dorothy, passed away yesterday in Los Angeles. She was 89. Both Jennifer and her brother Miles were immensely fond of Dorothy, and have often spoken warmly of the role she played in their lives.

I first caught wind of the news late Friday afternoon, when Jennifer's aunt called, sounding tense. I told her that Jen was working late, and would be coming home after eight. Sure enough, the phone rang again ten minutes after Jennifer's arrival. This time it was her mother, calling to formally break the news.

In the interim, a huge box of flowers had arrived. I held on to it until Jennifer walked through the door. By the time the phone rang, Jennifer was busy putting the flowers in vases. Along with it was a note from my sister Naomi, who, being the diligent reporter that she is, defined what it means to have good timing.

Viva Italia

Shoutout from the Old Country.

Dolph Schalit: 1995-2007

Jennifer and Dolph at the vet, February 2007

Just before daybreak, our eldest dog, Dolph, passed away. He was twelve. Though Dolph suffered from numerous longterm ailments such as Cushings Disease, the cause was congestive heart failure.

Dolph did not have an easy life. Found wandering around San Francisco's Lower Haight neighborhood in the Spring of 2006, we adopted him, and spent the better part of the past year becoming family.

Abused and neglected, bearing an unfathomable number of bladder stones (25, or so our veterinarian told us), records indicated he was abandoned by someone who'd recently moved up here from San Diego.

I have no qualms about stating that the last twelve months were the best of Dolph's life. Despite the threats he continued to face, Dolph held them at bay for as long as he could. And, for a short time, was truly happy.

Needless to say, this is a real fucking tear-jerker.

In Between Courses

David Schalit and Charlie Bertsch at Lulus, February '06.

Estupendo: DJ Tomas: Strictly Rub A Dub Volume 1

Schalit Family Values

Jennifer and Pixel, Calistoga, March 2006

Congratulations, Abba!

Elie Schalit, Tiberias, 2006.

This is my father. He was born in Jerusalem's Russian Compound on March 13th, 1921. Elie still works 12 hour days. At this very moment, he's calling colleagues in Europe and sending out faxes in several different languages. Respect.

Eretz Manhattan

A piece of the Berlin Wall, midtown.

The editorial meetings which brought me to New York are now over. After a ten hour-long session that began with a tasty Indian lunch on 96th street and Amsterdam avenue, I'm free to enjoy my last two days here. I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to it. On the agenda is lunch at a small hummus place around the corner, a stop at my favorite local record store, Other Music, and then a short walk up to 12th and Broadway to meet my family for dinner.

The nice thing about this trip is that it's introduced me to a part of the city I overlooked as a child, when my father and I lived here in the early '80s. After fifteen years in the suburbs, my brother sold his home, and bought a place on the border between Chinatown and Little Italy last summer. A beautiful, two bedroom apartment in a brand new, four story building, David's pad looks out at three Italian restaurants, and is a stone's throw away from the best Malaysian restaurant and tacqueria in the city. On nearly every nearby block, there's a deli replete with cans of Lavazza espresso and freshly baked breads on display in the window.

Before going into yesterday's meetings, I went to the new MOMA for the first time with my former Tikkun co-editor, Jo Ellen. Though we did not have too much time to spare, we saw a few photographs by Gerhard Richter, which were spectacular, as well as a small exhibit of Emigre magazine covers.  As magazine editors, this was perhaps the most interesting of everything we looked at. Design-wise the most influential periodical of the first wave of "desktop-publishing," Emigre's influence remains vast and under-appreciated. Thus, it was incredibly gratifying to see the periodical on display at an institution like the MOMA.

The only problem with this trip is how little time it has afforded Jennifer to relax. Hard at work at her company's Manhattan office, she slaved away until eight last night, and then hung out here with my brother until I came in at eleven. Nevertheless, it was immensely cool to see how comfortable both she and David were with each other when I walked through the door. Their second time meeting each other (their first and last meeting to date was at our wedding party last year), the two of them seem to have found much in common with each other very quickly.

Because my family is so spread out - in Israel, France, New York and Maine - I've always lamented how difficult it's been to facilitate this kind of intimacy. But, given  moments like this, its clear that we're all learning how to overcome the geographies that separate us. Whereas in the past, I would go up to four years at a time without seeing my parents, over the course of the past sixteen months, Jennifer and I have been to Israel twice to see them, and they've returned the gesture with two visits to the US. Now, with David in the same loop, things could not be better.

Longtail Music Appreciation Moment: Can: Future Days (1973)

Jennifer Takes Note

Shwarma with Sharon

It was late in the afternoon at Tel Aviv's Olympia restaurant. Barely a soul was present, with the exception of an overweight middle aged man sitting at the center of a large table, surrounded by several IDF officers sporting berets neatly folded inside their epaulets. Some were sipping cups of  Turkish coffee. Others were smoking cigarettes and talking, while the gentleman at the center of the proceedings sat there in silence.

Eventually a large plate of shwarma arrived, and when it did, all of the soldiers present allowed him to help himself first. Digging his hands into the steaming hot dish, he ended his silence. "Nu, Elie," he yelled out across the room to my father. "Manishma?" ("how are you?" ) he asked. My father got up from our table and politely made his way over to him. "Beseder," ("Fine") he said politely, explaining that he had arrived for a late lunch with his son, whom he'd just brought over from the United States.

"Who is that man you just said hi to?" I asked my father after he returned to our table. "That's Ariel Sharon," my father said. "He's a retired general, who'se now working in politics." I recognized Sharon's name. I'd seen it in the newspaper. It corresponded with a picture book I was reading about the 1973 war. "Isn't he a hero?" I asked.  "Well, yes," my father replied, sounding a little conflicted. "He lead the charge against the Egyptians two years ago in the Sinai."

Over dinner at a friend's apartment in Tel Aviv in 2005, I asked what had become of the Olympia. "It closed many years ago," the hostess said. "When did you last go there?" "When I was eight," I replied. "In 1975." Telling them the story of running into Sharon, they both laughed. "I once worked on Sharon's ranch when I was a kid," the host  said. "Watching him eat was an amazing - and a somewhat unpleasant experience. He would attack food like it was the enemy."